Birds Before The Storm
by MsBarrows
Summary: Sequel to "Eye of the Storm". Follows the adventures of Fenris and Zevran as they journey to Ferelden.
1. High Estate

He had not brought Zevran with him.

The choice had been his to make, whether or not to ask the other elf to accompany him on this, his first visit to the small estate Sebastian had gifted him with – for a gift it was, no matter what the Prince might say about it being a reward for his having saved Sebastian's life twice over – and he had decided that he wished to have some time to think, apart from Zevran and the confusing emotions his presence awoke. The assassin had been... disappointed, he could tell, at his decision to visit his new estate by himself. Or at least as "by himself" as he could be, when he had to bring servants along – _servants!_ – to staff and care for his new home. But now that it was too late to change his mind, with himself and his small retinue two full day's travel to the southwest from Starkhaven, he regretted it, and found himself missing Zevran, as he had never missed anyone else's presence in his life before.

He had changed a lot since Kirkwall. More still since coming to Starkhaven, where his very first act had been to save Sebastian from an ambush by people bent on the Prince's murder. He'd collapsed, afterwards, and awoken to find himself being cared for by one of the last people he would ever have thought to find alive and well in Starkhaven; the mage whose death Sebastian had sworn to see to, Anders.

Anders, too, had changed since Kirkwall. His indwelling spirit had left him. Or so he claimed, and so far it seemed to be the truth; there had been no sign of Justice, or Vengeance, or whatever the demon chose to call itself, and the mage's attitudes had undergone a profound shift as a result. He had, in his loss and grief after events in Kirkwall – the destruction of the chantry, Hawke's abrupt severing of his relationship with the mage – come to Starkhaven of his own free will, seeking an ending. But Sebastian had seen... _something_... in the man, in the circumstances of his arrival, that had stopped him from executing the mage out of hand on his arrival. He'd stayed his hand out of pity, curiosity perhaps, then further spared Anders' life out of practicality; healers were rare. The mage could be of use. And now...

Fenris smiled slightly. Many things had changed, for all of them. And those two who had been such un-friends in Kirkwall were now, against all probability, a couple, the affection between them palpable even to those as inexperienced in matters of the heart as he himself was. Nor was Sebastian the only one whose attitudes towards Anders had changed; to his lasting surprise, Fenris had also come to see the mage as a friend. A good one; someone he trusted, as he had trusted very few people in his life.

Nor was Anders the only new friend he'd made since arriving in Starkhaven; there were a number of people there he liked enough to spend time with occasionally, and chief among them was a certain elf from Ferelden. Bann Zevran Arainai of Blackmarsh, Blight Companion, ex-Crow. An assassin, and his... he hesitated, not wanting to use the most obvious word. More than a friend. The direction of his thoughts bothered him, reminding him as it did of the reason why he'd chosen to come here _without_ Zevran. Of the need to think, without the other elf's distracting presence.

He clapped his heels to Ari's sides, urging his horse to a faster pace. He had outpaced the waggon-load of servants and supplies some time ago; he'd wanted to reach the estate first, to see his new home without the intrusive presence of others. And wasn't that an odd word to have a use for... _home_. A place of his own. Not Danarius' mansion or any of his estates. Not the abandoned building Fenris had squatted in for so many years in Kirkwall. Not Isabela's ship, nor Sebastian's castle. A place that was _his_, the deed for it in his name, the keys to it in his possession.

And as he thought that, the road crested a low hill, and he saw his estate for the first time. The road branched here, the main road curving more sharply to the south and running downhill before turning to the southwest again to follow along the foot of a steep vineyard-covered escarpment. There were fields spreading out across the plains at the base, a tree-lined river, and a small village. A smaller offshoot of the road ran off to west and then turned back south-west, paralleling the top of the escarpment, to where a dry ditch backed by a tall, thick hedge marked out the grounds surrounding a small stone-walled manor house. The estate shared its name with the village down below – Brynhir, or "long hill" in the old mountain tongue. Or so he had been told. He supposed it referred to the lengthy face of the escarpment, which ran beyond sight for some miles to the southwest before eventually petering out in the foothills of the Vimmark Mountains.

He turned Ari's head, taking the western road, and was soon crossing a low stone bridge over the dry ditch. There was a gate; decorative only, a large grill of bronze, there more to keep out livestock than for any real defensive purpose. He dismounted long enough to unlatch and swing open the gate, leading his horse in, then closed it again behind him before swinging back up into the saddle. And stopped, just sitting there for a few minutes, studying what he could see of the building now that he was inside the encircling hedge and had an unobstructed view of it.

The road here was wide – at least twice the width as it had been outside the gate – and rather than the packed earth it had been on the other side of the bridge was formed of large flagstones set in a bed of sand, clumps of low-growing greenery squeezing up here and there in the gaps between them. There was a wide area of grass to either side of it, grazed short, and then a line of tall trees, elms he thought, that neatly framed the view of the house.

It was a wide, low building, in the shape of an L, the foot of it being a one-story wing to his left that contained stables and storage. The lengthier stroke of the L was the main house itself, two stories plus a dormered roof in height, paralleling the edge of the escarpment. There was a large door set in a recessed entryway at the top of a low flight of stairs, the leaves of it made of thick oak planks and iron strapping, that looked fully capable of withstanding a battering ram.

He rode to the edge of the flagstone yard fronting the house, and there dismounted, removing the tack from Ari and leaving the stallion to graze; he had no fear that the horse would run off. He carried the saddle and bridle and his saddlebags over to the stable, setting them down long enough to open the doors there – not as heavily made as those on the house itself, but still quite sturdy – and set the saddle and bridle safely to one side inside the doors. He hesitated, tempted to explore the stables first, then picked up his saddlebags and walked over to the house. _His_ house, he thought again, and smiled as he sorted through the keys on the ring to find the one that would open the door.

It was cool inside, and dim, the only light being the open door behind him, and the faint sunlight making its way through the gaps around the shutters covering all of the windows, the house having been shut up after its inhabitants – a close cousin of Sebastian, and his wife – had been killed by Flint Company mercenaries in the night of slaughter that had almost entirely wiped out the Vael family. The air smelled faintly of dust and mice. He stood a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness, then picked the closest door, and began a slow exploration of the house.

The first room to the right was a sizable sitting room, with a fireplace, all the furniture draped in muslin drop-cloths. He left them covered for now – later, once the servants had arrived and the shutters had been taken down, would be the time for a proper examination of the furnishings.

An open archway led into a second large room, a dining room, beyond which was a plain door leading to a small butler's pantry. Doors leading off from it revealed a sizable kitchen, a largely empty storage pantry, a stairway leading down into the cellars of the house, and a narrow stairway leading upstairs; servants stairs, he supposed, by their placement and plainness. He returned to the front hallway, and explored in the other direction, finding a smaller sitting room, with a small private study off it it, both connecting to a sizable library that ran along the hillside face of the house. There was also a small chamber containing an earth closet and a sink. That seemed to be everything on the ground floor, so he returned to the front hallway again and climbed the stairs to the second floor.

The space to the left was clearly the master suite; a sizable bedroom whose windows had a view out over the vine-covered slopes and the village far below. Off of it were several rooms, including a large and very well-appointed bathing chamber, and another sitting room and office. A wide hallway led off to the right from the top of the stairs, lined with doors that proved to lead to additional bedrooms, several with their own bathing chambers; guest bedrooms, children's bedrooms, and at the farthest end of the hallway, what had clearly been meant to be a schoolroom and nursery. There was also a door leading to the servant's staircase he'd first seen down below, and this time he climbed it, up into the attic spaces.

The attics had been divided up into several rooms, the largest of which was a storeroom, still filled with chests, boxes, and muslin-draped furnishings. There was also a bathing chamber, much smaller and more plainly appointed than the ones lower in the house, and a large cistern – currently empty – to supply water to the house, which had a rather surprisingly thorough system of dwarf-made plumbing; someone had spent considerable money on the building of this house.

Perhaps not entirely surprising, given that its owners had been members – however minor – of the ruling family, and that the vineyards that were part of the estate produced several well-regarded wines, including a small amount each year of the rare – and therefor quite profitable – winter wine. A wine whose production was largely limited to the royal estates, Sebastian had explained to him; his gift of Brynhir to Fenris made this only the third vineyard outside royal hands that had royal warrant to produce the wine, whose production was kept very strictly limited to maintain its value, as well as to insure that its quality was maintained at a high standard.

All told, he found himself thinking as he returned to the ground floor, it was a very nice house, rather larger than he actually needed, but not so large that he felt lost in it. Bigger than Danarius' Kirkwall mansion had been, but considerably smaller than his Minrathous household. Larger and finer than the house on Sebastian's own personal estate, but then that building was centuries older and harked back to a time when the Vaels had been little more than well-off land owners, as much farmers as fighters.

As he returned to the ground floor, he heard the sounds of voices outside, hooves and cart-wheels; the servants had arrived. He smiled as he went to the door to see them in. Servants of his own..._ that _was going to take even more getting used to than being Lord Fenris of Brynhir, minor noble of Starkhaven.


	2. Introductions

The first few hours at the house were filled with what seemed an unending bustle, as his handful of servants began putting the house into proper shape – taking down and storing away the shutters to admit light into the rooms, removing the muslin coverings from furniture, dusting, cleaning, carrying in supplies they'd brought along from the carts and seeing everything put away where it belonged.

He had only a very few servants and guards. Only one had he selected for himself – the woman Martha, who had been cleaning his rooms in Starkhaven for some time. He liked and trusted her, and she was of an age where she was not adverse to retiring from life at the castle to make her home in a smaller establishment. She had, she told him, been born and raised in a small village much like Brynhir; living again in such a place would be no hardship. Especially since he was making her his housekeeper, a position of some authority.

In addition to Martha he had a cook, a trained maid, a groom with enough experience to act as a stable-master for him, and a pair of guards. The estate itself already had a steward who had been looking after the running of it, and he had a letter from Sebastian instructing the man to continue in that capacity for Fenris, which he sent down to the village with his youngest guard, Ilys, along with a request for the Steward and the village head to attend on him the next morning. Any further help he needed could be hired from the village itself, and trained up as needed. The cook in particular had already made it clear that while he was willing to do without help initially, he would want a pair of scullions hired as soon as was feasible.

His servants wouldn't allow him to do any of the cleaning or unloading, so Fenris went out to the stables, whistling for Arianblaidd as he crossed the yard. The grey-dappled stallion came running into sight before he was even halfway there, pale cream-coloured mane and tail rippling as he came straight to him, the horse only slowing as he drew near the edge of the grass and moved out onto the flagstone yard. Fenris stopped for a moment to wait for the stallion to reach him, then caressed Ari's nose and scratched his poll, whispering softly to him, before continuing on to the stable, the stallion following docilely along behind him like a dog at heel.

The groom was busy brushing down the cart-horses, but at a question from Fenris pointed out where he'd stabled Aerynos, Fenris' black gelding, in one of the largest stalls. He'd also put down a bedding of straw in the stall beside it, and Fenris led Ari there, then spent some time grooming both of them, an activity he invariably found relaxing. After that was done he took a slow stroll around the grounds of the house. The view down the vineyard-covered escarpment and across the farm-covered plains to either side of the river below was spectacular. He wondered how much of what he could see was his; he had a map that Sebastian had given him, that showed the extents of the estate. He'd have to dig it out later and try to figure out how its borders matched up with the land.

He went back indoors, and found a slightly flustered-looking Martha looking for him to let him know that the evening meal was ready. He followed her to the dining room, and was surprised to find only a single place had been set. As used as he was to the easy camaraderie of dining with Sebastian, Anders and Zevran, it felt very strange to be eating on his own, and he found himself missing Zevran more than ever. After the meal he went to the library, and spent some time in studying the titles on the books there. It seemed to be as eclectic a collection of subjects as he'd seen in Sebastian's own library in Starkhaven, though on a much smaller scale, the room being only perhaps one quarter of the size of the library in the palace.

He smiled when he found a near-complete set of Brother Genitivi's travelogues on the shelves, selected one he hadn't read yet, and retired upstairs to his bedroom with it. The room had been cleaned, the bed remade with clean sheets, somewhat wrinkled from long storage and smelling of cedar. The few belongings he'd brought with him – some changes of clothing, toiletries and the like – had all been put away in the appropriate places. He stripped off his familiar old armour and hung it up neatly on an armour stand in one corner of the room, then pulled on a linen nightshirt and climbed into bed.

He lay awake for some time, missing Zevran, imagining what comments the other elf might have had to make about the place, the people, the day. He rather suspected that 'missing Zevran' was going to be a common theme of his visit here.

* * *

It was interesting and strange to wake the next morning in this new place, to lie there in bed and look around the large, well-furnished room and think that this was _his_. His room; his furniture; his house and grounds and estate. Not loaned, not squatted in, but his.

Fenris rose and padded bare-foot into the bathing chamber. The cistern had yet to be refilled, but a servant had filled the water jug on the wash stand, and he took a brief sponge-bath before dressing for the day. Not in his armour, but in simple, well-made clothing – close-fitting leggings dyed a dark blue, a loose tunic of pale blue silk with a touch of silver embroidery around the neck and cuffs. He had a signet ring now, as well, ordered crafted for him by Sebastian; white-gold, with a dark blue stone set in it, the flat face incised with a large, interlaced F and B, and a curl of grape vine, to signify the vineyards of his estate. He didn't like wearing it on his finger; it wouldn't fit easily under his gauntlets, and he didn't like the feel of it pressing against the fine lines of lyrium etched down the length of his fingers. He wore it on a chain around his neck instead.

He went downstairs, and had breakfast, again eating alone in the dining room. That bothered him... he hadn't liked eating alone the night before, and he liked it even less this morning. He would, he decided, have to make some changes. But before he could give thought to how to go about that, the maid came in to inform him that the steward and the village head had arrived to see him.

"Thank you," he said. "Show them to the office, and tell them I'll be with them shortly."

"Yes, ser," she said, dipped him a nervous little bow, and hurried off.

He quickly ate the last few bites of his breakfast, took a moment to make sure his clothing was clean and neat, then headed off to the office as well. The two men were standing waiting; it was easy to tell at a glance which was which. The steward was a middle-aged man, well-dressed in heavy-wearing plain brown leggings, brown leather boots, and a cream shirt; he was plump and pale of skin, with a pleasant smile, his hair trimmed in a neat but unflattering bowl cut. The village head was older, grey-haired and bent-shouldered, his skin darkened by sunshine, his simple clothes of undyed cloth – leggings and a baggy tunic, smocked at the shoulders, wearing simple sandals. Fenris would have thought them little better than work clothes, had he not spotted the heavy embroidery along the hems and cuffs and neck opening, done in thread of the same undyed colour. Embroidery took time and labour to create; they were good clothes, despite their simple appearance.

Fenris concealed a smile at the looks of surprise on their faces; apparently the guard he'd sent with the message had not thought to mention to them that he was an elf, not a human. "Good morning," he said, and gave them a shallow bow of greeting in return to their own hasty and somewhat deeper ones. "I am Fenris, the new Lord of Brynhir. Might I know your names?"

"Err... Geoffrey Aylkeep, ser," the steward hastily answered, then gestured at the villager. "And this is Wilm Thresher."

Fenris nodded, then gestured at the nearby chairs. "Please, be seated," he invited them, and walked around the desk to sit down in his own chair. "I won't keep either of you long. I merely wanted to introduce myself to both of you and let you know that Brynhir is once again occupied. I will not be here for very long; this is a short visit so that I can see the estate, settle some servants here to care for the house in my absence, and make arrangements regarding restocking the house so that it is ready for any future visits I make. I will be making my home in Starkhaven most of the year."

Geoffrey nodded. "Of course. We can begin sending supplies up from the village later today, at least of what is produced locally. Some things will need to be ordered in from other locations; do you have any particular requirements, or staff I should consult with about what will need stocking?"

Fenris frowned. "I... am unsure. I have a housekeeper and a cook, but my housekeeper is inexperienced in her role."

"Then with your permission I will consult with the cook, use my own initiative, and keep your housekeeper informed."

"That sounds reasonable," Fenris agreed, then glanced toward Wilm. "I am interested in seeing what I can of the estate while I am here, particularly the vineyards and the winery, though I am also interested in seeing whatever else is produced on the estate."

Geoffrey nodded again. "Either Wilm or I can guide you on that. I can better explain the financial side of things, where it's something that has some direct effect on the earnings of the estate, and Wilm would be better at explaining the actual work involved."

That drew a very slight smile from the older man, who so far had remained silent. "Aye, I'm better at the how, and he's better at the why-for," he said calmly, with a touch of humour lighting his eyes.

"For now I am more interested in the what and how," Fenris said. "Once I am familiar with that I will be interested in hearing about what revenues it brings in."

"In that case, why don't we have Wilm start taking you around to see everything while I go meet your staff and begin sorting out what supplies you require?" Geoffrey suggested.

Fenris nodded. "That is acceptable. I am ready now, unless there is anything else that needs to be discussed first?"

Geoffrey shook his head. "Not right away. I will need you to sign some authorizations and so on for me to continue as the steward here, but I'll have to prepare the paperwork first. It will be a day or two until that is ready."

Fenris rang for the maid, and was relieved when Martha herself answered the summons. He quickly introduced her to the steward, and once they'd been sent off to deal with the question of supplies, led Wilm out of his office and back to the front hallway. "Wait here," he said, uncertain as to how polite he could or should be with the man.

He went upstairs to his room, and hesitated for a moment over his sword, then reluctantly decided that walking around with a blade taller than he was strapped to his back was hardly likely to inspire trust among the villagers. He settled for a long belt knife instead, a gift from Zevran, a lovely bit of Dalish work, the blade of ironbark and the handle carved of halla horn. He fastened a light cloak around his shoulders, and went back downstairs. His two guards were waiting in the front hallway; he had not sent for them, but as soon as he saw them he realized that he should have. "Stannard, Ilys," he said, nodding to the two men in turn. "We're going to tour the estate."

"Yes, ser," they both answered, coming to attention briefly before falling in behind him.

He turned to Wilm and smiled slightly. "I am ready," he said.

The villager nodded. "Aye, ser... do you have any preferences as to what you see first?"

"Hmm. The village itself, I suppose. And then the vineyards and winery. I am greatly interested in wine," he said, smile widening.

Wilm nodded, and led the way out.


	3. Touring the Estate

Wilm remained silent as he led the way out of the estate, and around the dry ditch to where a pathway led from the road over to escarpment and down it, between the rows of grapes vines. He stopped at a wider, flat area partway down the hill, and glanced at Fenris, then waved vaguely at the neatly trained vines. "This be some of the vineyards, where we grow the grapes," he said. "We grow five kinds in these closest vineyards, four for wine and one for drying into raisins. There's one type of green, two of red, and a black grape for the wine, and the raisins are another red."

He turned and continued walking without waiting to see if Fenris had any questions or comments to make. Fenris frowned slightly, but continued along after the man as he walked the rest of the way down the hill and through the vineyards at the base of it until they reached the village. Wilm stopped once they'd reached the village square. "This be the village of Brynhir," the old man said, and gestured at some of the buildings. "Smithy. Chantry. Store. Tavern. Most everything else here is houses. The wineries and storehouses are that way," he pointed off to the west. "Wood-workers out there as well. And a tannery well beyond it. Dairy down near the river, and a grain mill. And plenty of farms, either side of the river and on top of the escarpment."

He turned and looked at Fenris, head cocking slightly to one side. "No elves living here. Not since before the exalted march against the Dales."

Fenris looked at him silently for a long moment. "There is one here now," he said quietly.

Wilm's nodded. "So there is. But not everyone is going to like it. We were an estate of the Vael family for almost as long as they have been on the throne. Even were you human, many in this village would see you as a step down in our status. That you are one of the elves..." he stopped and shrugged, head tilting to one side. "They will be unhappy."

"And you?" Fenris asked.

Wilm shrugged again. "I am old. I have seen many changes in my life. This is just another of them. I have said what needed saying – let us continue." He turned away and resumed walking, leading the way to the nearest of the buildings he'd named. Fenris could not help noticing that Wilm had skirted around actually answering the question. He chose to believe that Wilm was simply reserving judgement for now; his words and attitude so far had at least not been hostile.

Fenris spent the rest of the morning and afternoon being introduced to various places and people around town, including having lunch at the tavern. A few of the villagers were guardedly friendly, but most concealed whatever feelings they had about being introduced to the new Lord of Brynhir. A couple of them gave him openly hostile looks; for now he chose to ignore it. They would either come around in time, or they wouldn't. Right now he saw little point in making an issue of it, no more so than in pressing Wilm for a proper answer.

"With your permission, I will find someone else to take you to the winery tomorrow," Wilm said once they were finished touring the village. "It is longer than I can walk easily, and I do not ride. They can also show you the other other outlying places, if you like."

Fenris nodded. "That is acceptable. Have whomever it is come to the house tomorrow, with a horse – we will ride."

Wilm nodded, and said a polite farewell, then turned and walked off. Fenris and his men returned to the house, climbing back up the path through the vineyards.

* * *

"Do you know anything about wine?"

Fenris smiled slightly. "A little," he said, meeting the master vintner's eyes calmly. He was a formidable looking man, with a build like a smith, though the tools he used were grapes, yeast and casks, not iron, hammer and anvil. He was also one of the hairiest humans Fenris had ever seen, with an impressive mane of thick black curly hair, a matching beard that reached to mid-chest, and wiry black hair in a thick coat on his bared arms, covering even the back of his hands and fingers.

The man snorted slightly. "I do not believe Brynhir would be given to someone who knows next to nothing about wine. You are being modest?"

"Perhaps," Fenris said. "I leave it to you to judge."

"Hah! Which I would do in any case," the man said, then turned and called out. "Samuel! Bring the wine!"

A skinny youth hurried in with a tray held carefully in both hands, several wine goblets arrayed on it, and carefully set it down on a small table nearby, then hurried out again. The master vintner walked over and gestured at the tray and its contents. "Try a few and tell me what you think," he said, then stood aside and crossed his arms, watching Fenris, his expression almost challenging.

Fenris walked over and selected a goblet of red wine at random. He held it up to the light, swirled it, sniffed it, tasted it. Then grimaced slightly. "Reasonably palatable. Rather coarse; a good tavern wine at best."

He put down the goblet. Samuel had returned, carrying a second, smaller tray bearing a condensation-beaded metal pitcher, and a clay mug. Fenris poured some of the water into the mug, and used a mouthful of it to rinse his mouth, before picking up the next goblet.

"Interesting colour," he observed a moment later, one eyebrow rising at the pale pink shade. He sipped, then frowned, licking his lips, and sipped again. "Intriguing. I was expecting something sweeter from the colour. I like the aftertaste... very fruity, but light..." He continued on, tasting and remarking on the contents of each goblet.

The master vintner was looking pleased by the time Fenris finished. "You _do_ know a little about wines," he said, nodding his head and smiling approvingly at Fenris. "You prefer the darker reds?"

"Overall, yes. I liked this one very much," he added, gesturing at one goblet with a wine so dark is verged on purple. "It puts me in mind of an Aggregio Pavali – the flavour is different, of course, but it has a similar depth and finish to it."

That made the master vintner beam. "You are familiar with the aggregio? This is the same yeast – our soil and grapes are different, of course, so it is not the same wine at all, but it is one of our better dry reds."

"Yes, I am familiar with the aggregio... I am originally from Tevinter," Fenris said, and decided that was as much as he wanted to reveal about his past. "It has been my preferred wine for many years."

"You have expensive tastes."

"Only in wine."

The master vintner smiled in amusement, then bowed deeply, arms crossed on chest. "I am Kelso Lynt. I am pleased to have you as our new Lord, Ser Fenris. Please, allow me to take you on a tour of our operation."

"I would be honoured, Master Kelso," Fenris agreed.

Kelso nodded, looking pleased again. "You will not be able to see everything, of course, it is the wrong season for much of the initial steps of production. There is still much to see – the vineyards, the pressing room, the tuns and casks... And there is a small distillery, where we produce some stronger spirits. We are also blessed with some caves nearby that are extremely good for long-term storage of wines and spirits as they mature. There is also cheese stored there, and the villagers grow mushrooms in some of the damper caves. But come – we will start with the vineyards."

* * *

All told, it took Fenris six days to see all of the estate, including one day spent riding the bounds of it so that he knew where the borders of his land were. After that he spent an additional two days talking with Geoffrey, learning at least the basics of how his estate fit into the marketplace; what they sold, what they bought, and for how much. The estate ran at a tidy profit most years, some of which went into improvements, some into savings against emergency need; Geoffrey mentioned that they'd had to draw against that fund just the year before, to pay for the repair of one of the bridges across the river after bad spring flooding had undermined and washed away part of the span. The remaining profit from the estate had in recent years gone entirely to the crown, since the death of the previous Lord Vael.

"That changes, now that we have a Lord again," Geoffrey explained. "Since we're no longer a crown estate there'll only be a specific tax levied each year. And Prince Vael ordered the last three years of funds remitted to the estate, so you have a nice nest-egg that you can use for anything you like – refurnishing the house, improvements to it, personal purchases, and so on."

"What about starting a new venture?" Fenris asked curiously.

Geoffrey raised his eyebrows slightly. "Possibly – what were you thinking of?"

"Horses. I was gifted with a particularly fine stallion by Prince Vael; I see no reason not to breed him for my own benefit, if suitable mares can be obtained. There is good land near the estate that is currently unused, I would assume because the previous owners objected to having any livestock pastured that close."

Geoffrey nodded thoughtfully. "That should be doable. There would need to be stables built, fields fenced in and cleared of noxious weeds, a stable manager with adequate experience hired, grooms, stable boys, horses purchased... and you'll want to have more than just the one stallion. It will take time and be expensive to start up, but there is always a market for good horses. How soon would you like work to begin?"

Fenris shrugged. "I am in no great rush; I would want to consult with some people first, about suitable staff, proper design for the stables, and so forth. Work on the fields can be started this year, I suppose."

Geoffrey nodded. "I can see that work on that is begun, and will prepare a rough estimate of what the remainder is likely to cost. I assume you will either select and purchase the horses yourself, or have an agent do it for you?"

Fenris nodded. "Yes, likely some combination of both."

"In that case, let me give you the information on how to draw on your funds in Starkhaven. As the Lord of Brynhir you can also write letters of credit against the estate itself, but you want to be careful about doing so; if you are unable to settle them out of existing funds, you may be forced to sell off part of the estate, which is to be avoided. But your current funds are high enough that that should not be an issue," he added dismissively.

It was early evening before Geoffrey was satisfied that Fenris had an adequate grasp of financial matters. Fenris invited him to stay for dinner; Geoffrey was quite pleased to accept. He looked mildly surprised to see the household servants eating in the same room.

"I prefer a casual household," Fenris said, "And I dislike dining alone."

"Of course," Geoffrey said. "I can certainly understand that; I frequently dine at the tavern myself, more for the company than for any inability to prepare my own food."

"You're a bachelor then?" Fenris asked.

"A widower; my wife died in childbirth some twelve years ago. I have never met a woman that I thought could replace her in my life."

Fenris nodded. "My sorrow for your loss, in that case," he said, then paused a moment in thought, and frowned slightly. "I never thought to ask Sebastian; what happens to the estate if I die without issue myself?"

"I'd have to double check the terms under which it was given to you; it might either revert to the crown, or go to your closest living relative, if there is any. Do you have any that you know of?"

Fenris' frown deepened. "Unfortunately yes. A sister. She and I are... estranged." A mild word for the hatred that existed between them, he found himself thinking. And given her treachery with Danarius... "Find out for me, please. I would want to know if she stood to gain by my death."

Geoffrey's eyebrows rose a little, but he declined to question or comment on Fenris' statement, merely indicating that he would do so when he returned home, and send word to Fenris the next day.

The rest of the meal passed more pleasantly, mainly in further discussion of Fenris' proposal of adding horse breeding to the estate's operations. Geoffrey had a few suggestions for where the stables themselves might best be situated, and promised to mark them on a map and send that to Fenris as well so he could go look at the spots himself.

All told, Fenris was very pleased when he retired to bed that night. He should stay a few more days, perhaps visit the winery again – Master Lynt had promised to show him some of their more promising vintages, among other things – and then he could return to Starkhaven.


	4. Morning Ride

Fenris woke feeling surprisingly well-rested. He smiled and snuggled closer to the man spooned up against him, burying his nose in golden hair and drawing in a deep breath. Road dust and horse, a touch of musk, and beneath it all...

He jerked in surprise, arms loosening. "Zevran!"

A low, rich laugh, and Zevran turned over in his arms, teeth showing in a wide smile. "I was beginning to think you were going to sleep in," the assassin said, then laughed again, softly, as Fenris growled and hugged him tightly.

"What are you doing here?" Fenris asked, frowning. "Is something wrong back in Starkhaven?"

Zevran smiled reassuringly at him. "Nothing is wrong, except I missed you," he said, and wormed one arm free so that he could reach up and rest his hand against the side of Fenris' face. "Enough to risk angering you, and following after you, even though you had said you wished some time alone. Though I did wait a week before I left, in the hopes that you would be missing me as well. Was I wrong? Should I go back?"

Fenris smiled slightly. "It was good to have some time alone to think, but... I missed you too," he said, and rolled over, trapping the smaller elf under him, then lowered his head and kissed him.

Zevran made an approving sound, and kissed him back, raising his arms and wrapping them around Fenris' neck, wiggling slightly under him to press one of his legs between Fenris'. That won another growl out of the warrior, and they spent several minutes in increasingly heated kissing and movement. Fenris was working on undressing the other elf, who'd climbed into bed still fully clothed, when a knock on the door interrupted their activities. "Yes?" Fenris called out sharply, scowling in annoyance as he turned to look over his shoulder towards the still-closed door.

The maid's voice replied. "Sorry, ser... you asked to be woken when the note from Ser Geoffrey arrived."

"Thank you. I'll be down for breakfast shortly," he called back. "Leave the note at my seat."

"Yes, ser," she said, and went away.

Fenris snorted, and turned back to Zevran. He was tempted to continue, but...

"Do we at least have time for a bath?" Zevran asked quietly.

He smiled, and pushed himself up off of the other man. "Yes, if we don't linger," he said, and stripped off his night shirt, tossing it onto the bed before turning and leading the way to the bathing chamber.

Zevran quickly stripped off his own clothes and followed, making appreciative comments about the chamber once he saw it.

"When did you arrive?" Fenris asked as he stepped into the half-filled tub and sat down.

"A few hours ago... I woke well before dawn and couldn't get back to sleep, so I decided I might as well pack up and continue on."

"You rode?"

"Most of the way. Not in darkness though – I led Feo on foot the last few miles. He is loose outside the hedge," Zevran explained as he joined Fenris in the bath. "Then I let myself in. You have a very nice house," he added gravely, which drew a snort and a brief grin from Fenris.

"Not a very secure one," Fenris said.

"No, but that can always be fixed," Zevran pointed out. "You would need a larger staff though, which will not be worth it unless you plan to spend a lot of time here. Or if you make yourself some enemies."

"I seem to be short on those at the moment. It can wait," Fenris said.

They fell silent for a few minutes, concentrating on washing. It was not until they were drying off that Zevran spoke again, one eyebrow arching high. "Should I sneak out again and re-enter the estate more sedately, or shall we shock your servants?"

Fenris snorted. "Let them be shocked. They will need to get used to the idea that you are welcome to come and go at will in my house."

Zevran grinned. "Very well. We will give them a shock then. Just a little one," he said, and stepped close to Fenris to kiss him again before returning to the bedroom. His saddlebags were there, on the floor beside the door, and he quickly extracted and pulled on clothing; a little wrinkled from travel, but clean.

"No armour?" Fenris asked as he dressed as well, looking questioningly at the small size of the saddlebags.

Zevran grinned again. "Cached with Feo's tack. I will have to retrieve that – and him – after breakfast."

Fenris nodded, and, having finished dressing, led the way out of his suite of rooms and downstairs to the dining hall. A silence fell after he entered, as the servants and guards noticed Zevran following at his heels.

Martha broke the surprised silence, rising to her feet, a pleased smile on her face. "Bann Zevran! You have come to visit? Have you breakfasted yet? Sara, go fetch another place setting," she ordered the maid.

"Martha!" Zevran exclaimed, smiling broadly at the woman, as he left Fenris' side, walking rapidly in her direction. "Yes, I have come to visit. I am pleased to see you again – and looking so lovely as well! I have missed you at the castle," he said, then on reaching her took her by the hands and kissed her lightly on both cheeks. "Country life clearly agrees with you, it has put a bloom on your cheeks already."

Martha smiled and laughed, looking pleased at Zevran's flattery. "I am pleased to see you again as well, ser. But come, you must be hungry. Shall I arrange a guest room?" she asked, turning to look at Fenris.

Fenris shook his head. "That will not be necessary," he said, then glanced at Zevran. "Unless you would prefer...?"

Zevran smiled warmly at him. "No, I believe I am fine where I am."

The maid had returned and set a second plate beside Fenris' by then, so Martha headed back to her own interrupted breakfast while they moved to take their seats and begin on theirs. As soon as they sat down, Fenris felt Zevran's leg pressing against his under the table, and shot him an amused look before lifting his fork and knife and starting in on his food.

"So what are you busy with this morning?" Zevran asked, glancing at the folded and sealed bit of parchment resting beside Fenris' plate.

Fenris smiled. "Considering locations for a stable. I am thinking of breeding horses," he explained, then picked up the letter and opened it. It proved to be two pages, one heavily covered in writing – Geoffrey's answer to the question about inheritance, he assumed, and folded it away to look at later – and the second had a rough sketch of the lands surrounding the house, with several locations marked with an X. "Shall we go for a ride together after breakfast?" he asked, looking at Zevran and raising an eyebrow questioningly.

Zevran grinned, looking pleased. "That sounds quite enjoyable."

* * *

Fenris had changed again in their time apart, brief as it had been, Zevran could not help thinking as the two left the estate house together some time later. He moved and acted more confidently, and was clearly comfortable with his staff, treating them with a reserved friendliness that was, when Zevran thought about it, rather like how Sebastian treated his own closest servants.

They were on foot, Fenris leading Ari, as Zevran still needed to retrieve his own horse. They walked together in companionable silence back along the road, not stopping until they were within a small wooded area over a mile from the house. There Zevran led the way off the road and a little distance back into the trees, where he had his saddle, tack, and a sack containing his armour cached in a tree. Almost no one ever looked up, and even if someone had, the thick foliage made the bundle of things near-impossible to spot unless you knew it was there. He quickly climbed up, unfastened the rope holding the bundle suspended in the tree, and lowered it to the ground, then dropped back down.

Fenris was already lifting the sack up, and tied it on behind Ari's saddle, leaving Zevran to carry his horse's saddle and bridle. Zevran gave a shrill whistle, and waited a moment, listening, then shrugged and lifted them up. "He has wandered," the assassin said. "Hopefully not far. Is there water near here?"

"Yes. A stream, to the west."

"Let's try there first then," Zevran said, lifted the heavy saddle up on his shoulder, and walked off. He paused when they came out of the trees, and whistled again, then resumed walking. They'd walked for several minutes before there was finally a response, a distant whinny that drew an answering bugle from Ari. Zevran grinned and stopped, lowering the saddle to the ground again. Feo ran up to them a few minutes later. His name – Antivan for "ugly" – fit the horse, a big raw-boned gelding with a mouse dun coat and an evil look to him. But he suited Zevran, being overall an unremarkable beast that was unlikely to draw the avarice of others, with plenty of stamina and surprisingly smooth gaits.

Feo stopped a few paces off and eyed Zevran warily, until the elf chirruped softly at him and produced a bit of dried fruit from his pocket. At that the horse moved closer to accept the bribe and some petting, then stood quietly while Zevran put on the bridle and saddle. "Well, now that we both have horses, where are we headed?" he asked Fenris.

Fenris took out the little sketch-map he had, and consulted it, then smiled in obvious amusement. "The closest of the locations is along the stream to the west of here," he said, then put away the map and swung up into the saddle. Zevran mounted as well, and they headed on, Feo moving to his usual place alongside Ari. A few minutes of riding brought them to the stream, then they followed it upstream to a pond beside a low hill.

They dismounted there, and spent some time walking around the area, so that Fenris could familiarize himself with it, then moved on to the next location marked on the map. It took them all of the morning to locate and look over all of the locations marked on the map. Zevran had half-hoped that them being alone together outdoors for so long would lead to more than just looking at assorted bit of well-watered grasslands, but Fenris seemed quiet, almost withdrawn, not in the mood to talk much and certainly not in the mood for anything more intriguing. Still, Zevran found himself feeling remarkably content just to be together with him again, even if they did nothing more exciting than ride around together.

Fenris looked around after they'd checked the final location, and then smiled. "My winery is not far from here," he said. "Would you like to see it?"

Zevran grinned. "That should be interesting. Yes," he agreed.

Fenris led the way, south to the escarpment and then along it until they reached one of the paths down its face, then along the road at the bottom until they reached the winery itself, a sprawling complex of buildings built near the foot of a particularly steep section of the hillside, the slope behind it a cliff of bare rock instead of the vineyard covered hillside seen elsewhere along the escarpment.

Their reception there was quite welcoming; the master vintner was clearly well-pleased with his new Lord, and Fenris' mention that Zevran was from Antiva quickly led to a lengthy discussion of Antivan wines and spirits, over a simple meal of bread, cheese and smoked sausages on a pleasant little vine-shaded patio adjacent to what were obvious the master vintner's personal quarters, the food accompanied by a couple of bottles of very good wine.

"This one does not travel well unfortunately," Kelso explained over the course of the meal, indicating one of the bottles after Fenris had commented favourably on it. "And it must be decanted carefully; there is invariably a lot of sediment in it. But the taste is quite good, so we make a small amount each year for local consumption. It was a favourite of our previous Lord, there is likely still some of it maturing in the cellar at the house. Have you looked the cellars over yet?" he asked Fenris.

"Just briefly," Fenris said. "I've been too busy with familiarizing myself with the estate as a whole to spend much time exploring my own home yet," he added with a smile.

Kelso nodded. "Understandable. Tell me, do you have a wine steward yet?"

"No, not yet. Do you have someone you wish to recommend?"

"Yes," Kelso said, and smiled widely. "My nephew – my sister's second son. He has a good knowledge of wine, adequate manners, is clean and neat in his person, and so on. He had been thinking of going to the city to see if he could find a job in service – a childhood illness has unfortunately left him too frail for real labour – but if he can find a job close to home, that would be even better.

Fenris nodded. "Send him to the house tomorrow morning. I'll talk to him and see if he suits me."

Kelso beamed. "Excellent. Thank you, my Lord."

At the end of the meal Kelso and Fenris took Zevran on a brief tour of the winery and distillery - "brief" meaning it only took a few hours, rather than a full day or more. When they left, they were each bearing bottles, Fenris having been gifted with wine and Zevran with a local brandy that Kelso had thought he might enjoy trying.

"Not at all up to the standard of Antivan Brandy, of course," Kelso said. "But you should find it an adequate drink."

It was early evening by the time they returned to the house. They put away their horses themselves, enjoying the time spent in grooming the beasts.

"We should change before the meal, we smell of horse," Zevran pointed out as they left the stables afterwards.

Fenris smiled slightly. "Only if you want to. Before we left I made arrangements for us to dine privately in my rooms tonight."

"Oh?" Zevran said, one eyebrow arching high, then grinned. "Indeed. I look forward to the meal, then. And whatever comes after it, as well."

Fenris smiled slightly, and led the way indoors and up to his rooms.


	5. Old Fears Overcome

They ate, paying little attention to the food, and much to each other. They sampled the wine with dinner, and the brandy afterwards. They shared it from one glass, Fenris sitting on the couch, Zevran kneeling facing him with his legs to either side of the warrior's lap and Fenris' hands grasping his waist, steadying him as they alternated sips of brandy and lengthy kisses, both equally heady. When the glass of brandy was finished, Zevran put it aside and rose gracefully to his feet, and offered Fenris his hand, then led the taller elf into the bedroom. They undressed each other, standing beside the bed, slowly, with further kisses and gentle touches, hands reaccustomizing themselves to each other's body.

It was only when they moved onto the bed that Fenris became hesitant, a faint frown crossing his face. Zevran paused, and cupped one hand against Fenris' face, turning it towards him. He gave Fenris a questioning look. "What is wrong?" he asked softly.

Fenris turned his face away again, chewing on his bottom lip for a moment. "I want..." He stopped, and looked back at Zevran again. Then spoke, very quietly. "I want to _try_, to..." he broke off again, looking thoroughly unsettled now.

Zevran smiled, divining Fenris' meaning from his obvious hesitancy, his almost-fear. Fenris had overcome many fears already, in learning how to share intimacy with another, as something shared, something freely given, not as something taken from him. There was still one thing Fenris remained deeply uncomfortable with; a legacy of his cruel use by his master's apprentice, Hadriana. He did not like to be the one taking another; it raised the worst of his memories of his time as a slave in Tevinter. If he was hesitant and fearful, it must be that which he was thinking of trying.

"Of course," Zevran said, as quietly as Fenris had spoken, and leaned forward to kiss him again, reassuringly. "What position do you want me in?" he asked matter-of-factly.

Fenris chewed on his lip, looking almost upset for a long moment, then drew a deep breath, just a little shakily. "I need to be able to see your face."

Zevran nodded, then silently arranged himself on his back, legs folded up and spread, his hands hooked behind his knees. He watched Fenris closely, keeping his own expression calm, and waited.

* * *

Fenris sat still for a couple of minutes, just looking at Zevran. He had seen him naked before, of course, but the thought of what he was going to try doing made him as nervous as if it was their first time. That thought, and the memories associated with it, calmed him again. Memories of Zevran's touch, of how careful the other elf had always been to see that he was comfortable with what they did. He remembered the feel of Zevran's mouth on him, the scent of straw and horses... his breathing evened out further, the slight tremor left his hands. Only then did he move, and immediately frowned again. "Oil?"

Zevran grinned. "Look inside my right-hand saddlebag."

Fenris nodded and slid off the bed, and stalked over to where Zevran's saddlebags still rested on the floor by the door. He quickly found the required article and returned to the bed, where Zevran was still waiting quietly.

He took his time in oiling himself and in preparing Zevran, watching the other elf's face intently as his fingers worked inside him, reassured by his changing expressions, by the little sounds of pleasure he made as Fenris handled him, by how his cock stood stiffly upright, moisture beading on its tip, obvious evidence of his enjoyment. Fenris' breathing deepened, his skin flushing with his own increasing excitement. It calmed him further, seeing how untroubled Zevran seemed. And, too, that Zevran was _nothing_ like Hadriana – male instead of female, patient and kind rather than cruel and impatient, gentle instead of harsh. All bright golden hair and dark gold skin and warm brown eyes, where she was black and pale milky cream and cold, cold blue.

Finally he moved, rising up on his knees, then lowering himself down over Zevran, guiding himself into position with one hand before placing it flat on flat on the mattress, weight held up off the smaller elf on hands and slightly-shaky legs. He paused again, licking his lips nervously, knowing what he needed to do next and frightened of it.

"It's all right," Zevran said, quietly. "Go ahead."

Fenris nodded, once, then slowly lowered him legs down, holding his breath as his tip pressed against then finally slid inside Zevran. He kept his eyes locked on the other elf's face, watching the expressions that fleeted across it, not sure what he was looking for, and relieved nonetheless not to find it. He stopped once he was fully seated, buried deep in Zevran, feeling a surge of unreasoning fright. He froze, gasping for breath and dizzy with the rush of dark memories it had raised.

Before he could push himself back, disengage, Zevran moved, lifting his hands to cup gently against Fenris' head – not holding him, not stopping him from withdrawing if he wanted to, but just _there_, warm and comforting. "Shhh. It's fine, is it not? We're both fine. Breath, Fenris – all will be well."

Fenris nodded, then closed his eyes and lowered his head, and concentrated on calming himself again. This was not Hadriana, this was Zevran. He _trusted_ Zevran, knew that he was safe with him. He felt Zevran's arms wrap around him, holding him lightly, one hand rising up to massage at the back of his neck, the other stroking soothingly down his back, over and over again. His breathing slowly evened out again, and he gradually relaxed. He even smiled, briefly, thinking of how the way Zevran's hand was moving against his back put him in mind of Anders, petting his cat. Zevran seemed to sense his change in mood; his touch because less soothing, more caressing, one hand moving down to cup Fenris' buttocks while the one at his neck twined into his hair, and guided him to a kiss. His erection had softened a little in his fear; now it hardened again, as he breathed in the reassuring scent of the other elf, tasted him and was tasted by him.

When he moved at last, a first tentative thrust, it was by his own choice, not something forced on him by vile misuse of magic. He gasped, and stilled, then moved again, drawing a like gasp from Zevran that time. He looked anxiously at the assassin's face, and was relieved to see an expression of pleasure on it. He began to move with more assurance, rolling his hips in firm steady thrusts, felt Zevran's arms closing tightly around him, bracing against the movement, and welcomed the increased contact and closeness it brought.

It was nothing like sex with Hadriana had been. Nothing at all like that. There was no taint of blood magic, no painful energy thrumming along his lyrium brands, no feelings of humiliation and hatred and, under it all, terrible fear. There was _choice_. There was desire, and tenderness. There was Zevran making soft little sounds of pleasure beneath him, there was tightness and heat around him, there was his own steadily increasing pleasure as he moved, thrusting into Zevran again and again with increasing confidence.

Zevran shifted, legs spreading wider, moving out to either side of Fenris and then closing tightly around him. He locked his ankles, pulling the two of them even more snugly together. Fenris _growled_, then his pace changed; he started thrusting harder, grunting with the effort the shorter strokes required as Zevran rhythmically tightened and loosened around him, feeling the intense pressure building up to a head. Zevran eyes had closed, his head tilted back and mouth gaping open as he gasped and cried out with each rolling thrust. Fenris knew just how it must feel to Zevran, having been on the receiving end of the other elf's attentions many times, and the thought that now it was _he_ causing such intense sensations in the other elf added to his own pleasure. He cried out loudly as he came, almost keening from the pleasure of it. He kept thrusting, raggedly, until Zevran cried out hoarsely too, seed spurting out to smear between their bellies.

They stayed locked together for a while afterwards, Zevran's arms and legs wrapped warm and tight around Fenris. The warrior curled as tightly against and around the smaller elf as he could, clinging to him, shuddering in after-reaction. As the tremors faded and he began to relax, Zevran loosened his grip, legs unwrapping from around him, hands moving to stroke soothingly up and down his back again. Only once Fenris was completely limp did they finally separate, and silently clean themselves off.

When they lay down again, it was on their sides, facing each other, heads close together and legs intertwined, upper arms draped over each other's sides. Not the most comfortable of positions, but one that they both found comforting. They slept, easily and deeply.


	6. Supper With Friends

"So you enjoyed your visit to your estate?" Sebastian asked as he lifted the lid from one of the dishes in the middle of the table, peering interestedly at its contents.

Fenris, lounging back in his chair, smiled slightly. "Very much so," he said agreeably. "It is a pleasant place; I thank you for giving it to me."

Sebastian looked up at the elf and smiled warmly. "As many times as you've saved my life – and the lives of people I value," he added, his glance flicking momentarily to Anders, "I could hardly leave you unrewarded. I am glad that you like the place; I only ever visited there once myself, but I recalled it as having a pleasant view, and I thought the vineyards there would appeal to you."

Fenris nodded. "The view is very pleasant indeed. And the vineyards are indeed appealing, not only in appearance, but in what revenues I have been told they will earn me, and in the knowledge that I will be able to produce and drink my own wine," Fenris said, earning a grin from Sebastian.

Anders was smiling in amusement also, well-knowing that the revenues and the wine had been as much or more in Sebastian's thoughts as any purely aesthetic enjoyment the warrior might have in the lands of his estate. Fenris had saved them both, several times over, since the very day of his arrival in Starkhaven, when he'd run his feet raw to reach the city in time to foil an assassination attempt against the Prince.

They spent a while in talking about Fenris' estate, the wines made there, as well as other things it produced, and his plans to add a horse-breeding operation to it, which Sebastian thought was a fine idea.

"The royal horse farms produce some fine beasts, but very few of my nobles do any real breeding beyond a handful of hunters and racers, and the farmers of course are breeding for work horses, not horses for endurance riding or war," Sebastian said. "I'd be pleased to see more organized breeding of the heavy horses like Ari, especially with him as the centrepiece of your breeding stock; he's a magnificent horse. He's one of the best stallions the royal farms have turned out in my life."

Fenris already had tentative plans to go and speak to the stable master at the royal farms where Ari had been bred and raised; Sebastian gave him additional names and promised letters of introduction, to several other people in and around Starkhaven that it would be worth his time to consult in the matters of stable design and the selection of breeding stock. As well as acquiring a suitable well-trained stable master of his own, something that would be vital for his venture to succeed.

Only near the end of the meal did they finally change to a more serious subject, Zevran raising the question of whether there had been any recent news of Grand Cleric Odile and her forces.

Sebastian frowned and shook his head. "Only that she has not yet come to any firm decision on where the new seat of the Free Marches chantry will be based, though she lingers still in Tantervale."

Zevran nodded thoughtfully. "A tricky situation she is in; with the war between Orlais and Nevarra still ongoing, and her having succeeded in making you her enemy, she is in a dangerous position there. Kirkwall to the south is unlikely to welcome her presence either, assuming your messages have reached Viscount Aveline. She might always withdraw back east to Ansburg or Ostwick, but the recent upheavals, especially the fire in Ansburg, have left those cities in sad condition to be her seat of power. And she would have to pass through Starkhaven again to do so, or detour north into Antiva." As he spoke he doodled with his fingertips on the tablecloth, indicating the relative positions of the locations he spoke of.

Sebastian snorted. "So long as she and all her men remained on their boats, I would have no objection to her passing downriver. The further she and her templars and her influence are from Starkhaven, the better."

Zevran grunted, and sat silently for a while, frowning off into space. "I suspect she will stay in Tantervale for now," he eventually said. "If an Exalted March is indeed called for by the Orlesian chantry, as seems likely, she is well-placed there to move against Nevarra, Starkhaven, or Kirkwall, whichever direction seems most useful. I would expect the chantry to either move on Nevarra directly, with plans to sweep through the remainder of the Free Marches afterwards, or to take Kirkwall, and then come north through the Vimmark Mountains to Starkhaven. The latter would eliminate the only two places in the Free Marches outside of Nevarra that are currently in any real condition to oppose them, after which they could move on Nevarra from two fronts."

Sebastian nodded slowly. "I fear you are right. It is no longer a question of _if_ war comes to Starkhaven – it is when, and where it will first begin." He turned and looked toward Anders again, and directed his next words to him. "At least the evidence we obtained from your misadventure with the templars has served to bring my nobles more solidly in support of me; they do not like this idea of the chantry taking temporal power any more than I do. And even if we must currently remain silent about it, the knowledge that there is a rebellious faction at the highest levels of the templar order gives me hope – not something I would have imagined myself ever saying," he added, lips twisting in a crooked smile.

Anders nodded. He'd been abducted at the instigation of the chantry, and spent several days in the hands of a unit of templars out of Orlais, led by a sadistic brute, a Seeker named Reynard. Anders had been lucky; he'd been rescued by Fenris and Zevran, still alive, healthy, and sane. Another mage – a blood mage named Bridie, who'd been controlling Anders, and her husband Phillipe, who'd been used by Reynard as the leverage to control her in turn – had not been so lucky. Bridie had fallen to anger and despair after seeing her husband so badly abused by the templars that he'd nearly died from it. She'd given in to a rage demon, and subsequently died at the hands of the templars herself. Phillipe had survived, but he was now a broken shell of a man, barely competent to keep himself clean and fed.

But some good had come of the incident. They had recovered evidence from Reynard's corpse about the chantry's plans to take over direct rule of much of Thedas, plans which had revolved around the idea of _Sebastian_ uniting the Free Marches under his own rule, becoming King of the Free Marches with the chantry's backing.

It was an ambitious plan, calling for Starkhaven to absorb the areas downriver of it first of all – lands already in turmoil from events following the destruction of the Kirkwall chantry the year before – then those upriver, followed by the acquisition of Kirkwall itself. Orlais would meanwhile, it was planned, re-acquire Ferelden, then both forces would together attack and overwhelm Nevarra, before turning their attention northeast to Antiva and Rivain, back west to Tevinter, and finally, it was planned, north to deal with the qunari threat once and for all. Plans beyond that called for the forced conversion of the dwarves to the Andrastrian faith as well. The Dalish, of course, would be forcibly assimilated whenever any of them were encountered. An ambitious plan – and one that would see Thedas bathed in blood for years, perhaps decades, as wars swept back and forth across the continent, and eventually beyond. Sebastian had refused his proposed role in the plan most emphatically; it had led to him renouncing what remained of his vows to the chantry, cutting his ties of brotherhood with them and putting himself firmly outside their control, and in opposition to their plans.

It would have been near-impossible to convince people that such a plan existed without any evidence beyond Sebastian's sworn word – even with Revered Mother Glynis, leader of the Starkhaven chantry, speaking up in support of him, willingly talking about what she herself had heard and witnessed. But thankfully there had been evidence of the plan's existence among Reynard's papers. The strongest piece they had was in the form of a letter from Grand Cleric Odile to the Divine, in which Odile talked of Sebastian's refusal to comply with the chantry's plans, and advanced a number of suggestions – many of them quite disturbing – as to how he might be forced into co-operation, or eliminated if he would not do so. It did not, of course, lay out the chantry's entire plan, but there were enough references to things such as Sebastian's "refusal to accept the chantry's assistance in uniting the Free Marches under his rule" and so forth to at least sketch in the initial shape of the plan. Enough to convince Sebastian's nobles that it was no lie he told them, when he spoke of the chantry's plans and Orlesian ambitions, the two having become more closely tied in recent years than the devout outside of Orlais might wish.

But it was learning of the existence of a _templar_ underground that had been the most momentous outcome from Anders' misadventure. One of the templars in Reynard's group, Guillaume by name, had proven to be a mage, and if that wasn't astonishing enough, he was also the brother of Knight-Vigilant Rémi, who was the current head of the Order of Templars, and, it seemed, one of the leaders of the templar underground. Drawing their ranks mainly from chantry-raised orphans as the templars did, it was perhaps unsurprising that the occasional mage like Guillaume cropped up, his powers not having manifested until he'd been a templar for some years. The chantry and its Seekers routinely killed or imprisoned such templar-mages, whenever they discovered them; Guillaume was one of very few such who had survived the manifestation of his power, his secret closely-held by the underground and known to only a select few.

Another of the templars in the group, and the only other survivor of it, was Guillaume's partner, Antony. The two had been sent along with Seeker Reynard, Guillaume openly there as the Knight-Vigilant's man, whose company Reynard could not diplomatically refuse, even if the Seekers did command the Templars. Antony was slipped among the Seeker's men less openly. He was there as Guillaume's secret partner in order to both support the older templar-mage in his mission and protect him if it became necessary, though in truth the pair seemed to share equally in protecting each other; it was clear that the two were close friends and had a great deal of trust and affection for each other.

What evidence of the chantry's plans that had been found among the Seeker's possessions had been divided between the Prince's side and the pair of templars, most of the harder evidence going, out of necessity, to the templars, since it was more useful in the underground's hands than in Sebastian's. Zevran had overseen the division of the evidence; as an ex-Crow, his feeling for the politics of the situation had been the surest available.

What it all boiled down to was a very unpleasant and unstable situation, with the chantry unhappy that Sebastian had not cooperated with their plans, and the Grand Cleric positioned in nearby Tantervale with a worryingly large force of templars at her command. It was possible the chantry would call for an Exalted March against Starkhaven, with Anders having been given sanctuary there as the excuse for it. But even that threat could not make Sebastian willing to either cooperate with the Orlesian Divine's plans or surrender Anders to the chantry; even before he'd learned of their plans, he'd felt that there was more value in keeping Anders alive than in executing him out of hand for his actions in Kirkwall. As reprehensible as the mage's acts there had been, Sebastian did not feel that Anders was entirely to blame for them - he had, after all, been under the influence of a spirit of the Fade at the time, which had since deserted him – and perhaps more importantly in some ways, he was genuinely remorseful about what he had done. No – executing him would not bring back a single one of the people who'd died as a result of Anders' destruction of the Kirkwall chantry. But _keep_ the mage alive, and well-watched, and he might in time save enough other people to in some degree offset his crime. Redemption, not retaliation, was the choice Sebastian had settled on, Anders' imprisonment for life his chosen punishment for the man.

That Sebastian had come to understand why the mage and spirit had acted as they had, and had even come in time to love the mage had doubtless influenced his decision to not surrender Anders to the chantry's rough justice. Yet he'd made the decision to not execute Anders long before he'd come to care for him, had made it while he still hated the man and all he'd done, in fact, and so he felt sure it was the _right_ decision to have made. More, the Hero of Ferelden, Anders' direct superior in the Grey Wardens, had passed judgement on the man, named him a murderer, and formally made him Sebastian's prisoner until such time as she personally returned to reclaim the mage and see him punished for his crimes. Even if Sebastian's decision to keep Anders his prisoner had ever wavered, his personal honour would not have allowed him to surrender him to anyone but Soria Mahariel. Not when he had given her his promise to keep the man safe and secure.

All this and more passed through the thoughts of the small group gathered around the table in Sebastian's private apartment. It had been a tumultuous year for all of them, full of changes in their lives, and the changes were obviously far from over, their future still uncertain.

Fenris and Zevran were tired from their journey back to Starkhaven, having only reached the capital late that very afternoon. Socializing after dinner was therefore brief, the two elves soon departing to their beds – or more likely to the bed of one of them, if Sebastian was any judge – while Anders and he sat drinking and talking for not much longer before making the decision to retire downstairs to Anders' cottage, where they might relax together in more comfort.


	7. A Quiet Night

It was good to be back in his own rooms in the castle, Fenris thought. He liked his estate, and doubtless he would spend a reasonable amount of time there in future, but here he was close to his friends. Here felt like home, more than any place before ever had. Even as he prepared for bed, he was already looking forward to the next day; an early-morning ride with Zevran, he hoped, with a stop at his favourite bakery to pick up their breakfast. Lunch with Anders and Sebastian. Perhaps some time spent with the children, while Zevran gave Pic some additional training. He had never spent much time with children before; he hadn't thought he'd like them. But time spent with Ewan and Niawen, among others, had made him realize that he rather liked children, and surprisingly enough they also seemed to like him, at least the few he'd interacted with.

There was a soft knock at his door, a pattern of knocks he recognized, and he smiled, hurrying over to open it. "I thought you'd gone back to your room for the night," he told Zevran.

The other man smiled, as he stepped into the room. "I did go back to my room, but not for the night," he said. "I went to fetch this."

He held up a familiar bottle; Antivan brandy, a gift Fenris had given him some months back. Fenris smiled, remembering the night they had finally broached it, and the few nights when they'd drunk it since; all of them special nights, celebrations, full of special memories. "What are we celebrating tonight?" he asked, closing the door and looking enquiringly at Zevran.

Zevran shrugged, and set the bottle down on a nearby end-table. "Does it matter?" he asked. "We are back here, together, with our friends. Is that not reason enough to celebrate?"

Fenris smiled slowly. "I suppose it is," he agreed, and stepped closer, then leaned down to kiss the other elf, one hand rising to slide under the assassin's shoulder-length hair and cup the back of his neck. Zevran made an approving sound, his own hands rising to cup Fenris' face. The kiss deepened; Zevran's arms slid around Fenris' neck, while Fenris released Zevran's neck and let his own arms drop, wrapping around the other elf's waist and pulling him closer.

When they finally parted they were both short of breath. Zevran had a wide smile on his face. "Perhaps we should skip the brandy and take this directly to the bedroom, yes?" he asked.

Fenris laughed softly. "Or bring the brandy with us."

"An intriguing suggestion," Zevran said, letting one hand remain on Fenris' shoulder, fingers caressing lightly against the side of his neck, while with the other he reached out and picked up the bottle. "Glasses?" he asked, one eyebrow arching questioningly.

Fenris nodded, and bent down to briefly kiss him again before turning away, walking over to the sideboard to fetch a pair of blown glass goblets. He led the way to the bedroom, setting down the glasses on the small table by the bed, before kicking off his soft-soled indoor boots. Zevran set down the bottle as well, then as Fenris was reaching to loosen his leggings, the assassin reached out and put his hand over his, stopping him. "Wait," he said. "There is no rush."

Fenris paused, looking at him for a moment, then shrugged slightly. "I suppose not," he agreed, and watched curiously as the other elf kicked off his own boots, then picked up and uncorked the bottle pouring a little into each glass. Zevran looked like he had something on his mind, Fenris realized as the elf turned and handed one of the glasses to him, then gestured silently at the bed with the one held in his other hand.

They stretched out side-by-side, propped up against the pillows at the head of the bed, and sipped at their brandy, not talking at first. Fenris watched Zevran, waiting. Trusting that Zevran would talk when he was ready to, and in the meantime just enjoying his company.

Finally Zevran put aside his glass, and reached over to take Fenris' hand in his, interlacing their fingers together. "We should talk," he said, very quietly, keeping his eyes fixed on their joined hands,

"About?"

"Us. Our future – if we indeed have one," Zevran said, finally turning his head to look at Fenris and meet his eyes.

Fenris met his gaze for a long moment, then turned away, putting aside his glass of brandy as well, suddenly having no stomach for it. He turned back, and looked intently at Zevran. "I would hope we do have a future," he said. "You mean very much to me; you know that, I would hope."

Zevran nodded slightly. "Yes. As you mean very much to me, as well – more than I ever expected, when I first conceived an interest in you. I... do not wish to be parted from you, Fenris, but my being here is a danger to you. Not just to you, but to others here as well; the Crows will not give up on me easily, especially not when I am so close to Antiva here. And..." He paused, and sighed, looking away for a moment. "I have obligations elsewhere. My title may be largely symbolic, my bannorn a very small one, but I _do_ have people that are within my care as the Bann of Blackwater. I have been too long away from home; I need to return, for at least a little while, some time soon."

Zevran swallowed, and looked down at their joined hands again. "I do not know how long I will be gone. When, or even if, I can return safely. I know only that the thought of leaving you, losing you, affects me as no other has; not even Soria. I loved her, yes, but she never loved me back; not in the same way, at least, though I know she _did_ care for me. While you..." he broke off.

Fenris had never seen Zevran so uneasy before; so at a loss. It matched his own unsettled feeling, the one that had made him depart for his estate without the other elf by his side. He drew a breath, and squeezed Zevran's hand tightly for a moment. "I would wish you to come back. Ideally, not to have to leave in the first place, but I know well that it is no ideal world we live in. I..." he stopped as well, the words too big to say, too frightening. He leaned over instead, reaching across with his free hand to touch Zevran's cheek, tilt his head to just the right angle. He kissed him, not deeply, but nonetheless very passionately, feeling Zevran's hand tighten hard around his, the elf's other hand reach up to wrap around his forearm. He could feel the racing of his own pulse, where those slender fingers pressed against his wrist.

When the kiss ended, Zevran looked searchingly into his eyes, then smiled warmly at what he saw there. He leaned upwards, turning his head to press a kiss against the angle of Fenris' jaw, then released his hand so that he could turn onto his side, pressing himself against Fenris, his hands begin a practised exploration of Fenris' body.

They did not speak, but only exchanged touches and kisses, staying clothed at first, enjoying the slide of cloth against flesh, the hidden touch of hands under clothes. Zevran set the pace for everything, Fenris passively accepting whatever the other elf wanted to do. He sighed into a long kiss from Zevran as nimble fingers unlaced his leggings and slipped down within his smallclothes, cupping over his length with a familiar warmth, gently drawing it up and out. Zevran kissed his way down Fenris' neck, hand curling round him and tugging insistently, then released him again, long enough to help the warrior strip off his shirt. He worked his way further down after that, following the white tracery marked on Fenris' skin with tongue and kisses, and sometimes teeth, gently, until his mouth closed hot and warm and wet around Fenris' erection.

Things progressed along well-known pathways after that, until some little while later Fenris cried out in pleasure, arching backward with eyes closed tightly, his hands tangled in Zevran's hair. Zevran, as he sometimes did, took no care for himself afterwards, but instead moved back up the bed, curling up with Fenris, spooned back against him.

Fenris draped his arm over the smaller elf's waist, and let his own hand stray downwards, touching fingertips lightly to Zevran's erection. "Shouldn't we do something about this?" he offered, nuzzling into Zevran's hair.

"Later," Zevran said, and turned his head to smile at him."For now I am more than content to just lie here with you."

Fenris snorted, but wrapped his arms more securely about the elf, holding him close.

They napped, and woke, and a while later slept again.

* * *

Fenris woke feeling very well-rested. He slipped out of bed, Zevran muttering and shifting and cracking open one eye long enough to see that it was just him getting up before rolling over on his stomach and slipping back to sleep. Fenris concealed a smile as he pulled on his nightshirt against the morning chill, and padded off barefoot to the bathing chamber. Their second bout in the middle of the night had been lengthy and energetic, and it was only his own long-standing habit of rising early that had him up out of bed already.

He drew only a shallow bath for himself, not feeling like waiting the time for the tub to fill, and cleaned himself quickly. Besides, he'd need a proper bath later, once he'd had his morning ride. He mentally scratched the idea of inviting Zevran along off of the list in his head of things he'd like to do today; better to let the other elf sleep in. He would take only a short ride today, he decided, and bring back some pastries from his favourite bakery, in the hopes that Zevran would still be in his bed when he returned, and they could breakfast together. Not that the castle kitchens didn't make perfectly good food, but he did like the things made at his favourite bakery. Besides, Zevran had shared his package of pastries on rides together often enough now that they would have almost as many pleasant memories associated with them for the assassin as they did for Fenris.

Ari was in fine fettle, not in the least tired, even after their lengthy journey back from Fenris' estate. Fenris made much of him and Aer, then went for his ride, not going very far outside the city walls, nor very fast; just a slow early-morning amble, communing with the countryside and his horse, enjoying the freedom he had to do so.

The baker and his apprentices were pleased to see him show up on their doorstep on his way home, and quickly put together a parcel of pastries, Fenris purposefully selecting ones that he knew the other elf was particularly fond of, as well as a few of his own favourites. He returned to the castle directly, taking time only to groom the horse and talk briefly with one of the stable-boys about a shoe that he thought might be working itself loose, before hurrying back indoors and up to his room.

He let himself in quietly, hoping to find Zevran still there, and still asleep. Though he'd settle for the first part, that being the most important one as far as he was concerned. He heard a sound from the bedroom, and smiled, tossing the light cloak he'd worn riding over the back of a chair, and hastily brushing at and straightening his clothes before starting toward the bedroom; he'd smell like horse until he bathed again and changed into clean clothes, but Zevran wouldn't mind.

The sound of glass shattering came from the bedroom, and a pained cry, cut off with a gurgle.


	8. Daggers and Death

Fenris burst into the bedroom, barely pausing as he took in the scene before him; Zevran cornered by four attackers, naked and armed with nothing but a broken-off bottle in one hand and a slashed-open pillow in the other. A fifth figure was thrashing on the floor in a pool of blood, throat a gory mess. Fenris gave an angry shout even as he darted to one side to grab his sword; he didn't usually take it along on morning rides any more, it being rather cumbersome to deal with on horse back.

His shout served the purpose he'd meant it to, distracting a pair of the attackers into glancing his way. Zevran took advantage of the opening, darting to one side, lashing out with the bottle. One of the attackers – Crow assassins, Fenris assumed – staggered backwards, shirt torn and blood welling from the wounds the jagged end of the bottle had scored deep into his flesh.

"Get the other elf," one of the assassins snapped out. Female, and dressed in Starkhaven livery, Fenris noticed in passing. By then he had his sword in hand, and was ready for it when one of the assassins moved his way, long daggers in each hand.

He was glad he'd sparred against Zevran so many times; he had at least some idea of the speed with which Crows attacked, moves they might make, patterns of movement they might follow. One pass, two, three, and he recognized an attack series Zevran sometimes made, _knew_ what the next move in sequence likely was, and dropped low, yanking his sword violently to one side. The assassin cried out and fell to the floor, disabled and dying. He looked up from his own fight in time to see Zevran disarmed as the injured assassin managed to connect solidly with and shatter what was left of the bottle. Zevran threw the remains of the pillow in his face, momentarily blinding him, and skipped quickly backwards, left hand pressed to his side, blood showing bright against his skin; Fenris hadn't even seen the move that wounded him.

Fenris quickly stooped down, snatching up one of the long knives the man he'd just killed had been using, and threw it near Zevran. The assassin grinned and nodded at him even as he leapt to the side to snatch the dagger out of the air.

As soon as the dagger had left his hand, Fenris charged forward with a shout of rage. His sudden re-entry to the fight again distracted the assassins. The one that Zevran had wounded earlier quickly backed away from both him and Zevran, the woman dodging to the side as Zevran, now re-armed, feinted in her direction. The third assassin hesitated a moment in indecision over whether to guard himself against Fenris or attack Zevran; by the blood on his blade Fenris assumed he must have been the one that managed to injure Zevran. Fenris took advantage of the man's momentary pause, leaping into the air and bringing his sword down with devastating effect, cleaving the man almost in two from left shoulder down to right waist. Zevran feinted again, at the wounded assassin this time. The assassin back-pedalled yet again, clearly demoralized by the deaths of two of his companions and his own injuries, and Fenris moved to engage him. The female assassin moved back in toward Zevran, diverting his attention from the wounded assassin to her. Fenris found himself in a one-on-one fight with the wounded assassin, who despite his wounds put up a good fight, fending off or dodging Fenris' sword twice as he retreated around the room, drawing Fenris away from Zevran's ongoing fight with the female assassin.

Zevran grinned at her. "They are not up to your calibre," he said, almost conversationally. "Though the one left is reasonably good. You might have carried this off, had you been entrusted with better tools."

She spat out something angrily in Antivan, and tried an attack against Zevran. He fended it off almost lazily, grin widening. "You are good too; almost as good as I was at your age, which is saying something. Fenris!" he suddenly called, keeping his eyes on the woman, dodging another of her attacks.

"Yes?" Fenris asked, not looking around but instead concentrating on his own battle. The wounded man was tiring quickly, doubtless from blood loss, and favouring his injured side. Fenris made another attack, the block of which forced the man to use that side, and smiled grimly on hearing his pained hiss as torn flesh stretched.

"Kill that one. But this woman, I need taken alive," Zevran said coolly.

Fenris' answer was another attack on the man. He could hear Zevran taunting the woman again, though in Antivan this time, the coldly mocking tone of his voice the only thing that gave any indication of the nature of his words. She spoke in return, and something in her tone of voice made Fenris abandon his own fight, turning and charging toward her even as she leaped for Zevran, whom she'd managed to corner near the wardrobe. It was, one coldly analytical corner of Fenris' mind noticed, a desperate attack – and a suicidal one. It left her wide open to a killing strike from Zevran, but to take the strike he'd have to close with her, within the range of her wide-spread blades, and judging by the discolouration of their edges, even a small cut from them might be lethal.

Zevran did not take the obvious opening, but instead threw himself low and to one side and rolled, dodging the sweep of her blades, though his pained cry made it clear that the move had not been without cost. As Zevran rolled back to his feet, Fenris could see how much heavier the flow of blood was from his wounded side; the rolling move had torn something. Zevran would not last much longer if he kept bleeding at this rate.

Then Fenris engaged with the woman, and had to concentrate on her, ignoring what went on in the rest of the room, though judging by the sounds, Zevran had moved behind him to engage the wounded man. The woman was certainly better than any of the other assassins that Fenris had fought; keeping those poisoned blades away from his flesh took a large part of his effort, preventing him from making more than an occasional attempt to attack her in turn. Then there was a pained cry from behind him, and her eyes flickered that way, expression changing just enough that he was sure that it was Zevran who had been the winner of that fight. Zevran appearance at his elbow, joining in the fight against her, confirmed that a moment later. It was now just her, alone against the two of them.

Her earlier willingness to try even a suicidal attack should have warned him, he later realized. She spat out a single angry word, then ignoring the sweep of Fenris' sword dove towards Zevran. Remembering Zevran's order to take her alive, he twisted his blade, not managing to turn it quite enough to hit her with the flat instead of the edge, but enough that the blow she took was not lethal, as it otherwise would have been. To his horror she succeeded in her goal, sinking one of her blades deep into the flesh of Zevran's shoulder before the blow from his blade swept her away from the elf again. She fell heavily to the floor, only the whitened expression on her face betraying the pain she was in from the deep cut he'd given her.

And then she tried to turn her remaining blade on herself.

Zevran must have anticipated her suicidal move. He ignored the knife still sticking out of his shoulder and dodged under Fenris' still-moving sword to dive after her, catching her wrist and slamming her arm backwards to the floor, the knife going skittering away as it was jolted from her grip. His impact with her had driven the air out of her; before she could catch her breath and begin to fight back, he grabbed her hair and banged her head against the floor, hard enough to stun her, then a second time, knocking her out entirely.

Zevran lay there for a moment afterwards, looking half-stunned himself. Fenris dropped his sword to the floor and moved to crouch down by him, looking at the dagger still stuck in his shoulder. He started to reach for it, then hesitated, unsure if removing it would do more damage. "_Zevran_..." he choked out, all the fear and worry he'd ignored over the course of the fight suddenly rushing back tenfold.

"I'm all right, _mi amor_," Zevran said calmly, and forced a tired smile. "I have acclimatized myself to most Crow poisons, over the years. I know this one. I will feel very sick for a while, but I'll be all right. But we will still need Anders on hand, and quickly. Bring me something to use as rope first; I'd rather not have to fight her again if she rouses before you get back with him."

Fenris nodded, and quickly rose to his feet, looking around uncertainly for a moment. Rope... he didn't have any. But a knife made short work of turning a sheet into strips of cloth, and under Zevran's direction he soon had the female Crow rather thoroughly immobilized, then hurried off to get Anders. He paused only long enough to stop a passing guardsman and send him off to alert Guard-Captain Cerin and Sebastian of recent events as well before hurrying outside and across the grounds to the clinic.

* * *

Guard-Captain Cerin and his men had reached the room only a few minutes before Fenris returned . Zevran, draped in the remains of the torn-up sheet for modesty, was warning them to leave the bodies and weapons alone when Fenris entered with Anders in tow. The first thing Zevran had Anders do was put sleep on the woman. Only once he was positive she could not rouse and do herself any harm did he allow the mage to treat his wounds, both the dagger wound in his shoulder and the far uglier wound in his side. That one concerned Anders far more than the shoulder wound did; gut wounds could go very nastily septic from even tiny nicks to the wrong internal organs. He spent considerable time with his hands cupped over Zevran's side, eyes half-shut as he trickled healing power into the elf's flesh, before finally being satisfied that he'd done what he could for now.

He healed the woman as well, while Zevran quickly checked the corpses of the other three assassins for any dangers before allowing Cerin's men to take them away, and giving them very strict instructions about handling their weapons or other gear. Even with Anders having put sleep on her, Cerin assigned a double pair of men to guard the living assassin when she, too, was taken away, still securely bound.

"I will want to talk to her later, once I've had a chance to bathe and dress," Zevran said. He looked around Fenris' room, as he tucked the torn sheet more securely around his waist; the floor pooled with blood where the bodies had lain, the brandy and broken glass spattered across it from his improvised weapon, tufts of down scattered here and there from the pillow he'd used as a shield. He turned to looked at Fenris. "I think we should retire to my rooms," he said, then stopped, and frowned in thought. "Or perhaps not. She was wearing servant's livery – who knows what charming little things might be waiting there, if she managed access to them as well."

Sebastian had shown up by then, and quickly offered Zevran the use of a different set of guest rooms, until he had time to make sure his own were safe. Fenris gathered up clothing for the pair of them – Zevran had a few outfits stored with Fenris' clothing, since he was as likely to sleep in Fenris' bed as in his own – and the two of them moved down the hallway to the offered rooms.

As soon as the door of the room closed behind them, giving them privacy, Zevran turned and all but lunged at Fenris, wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug, pressing his head into the curve of Fenris' neck. "I have never been so terrified in my life," he said, voice sounding half-strangled with strain. "Not in all my years as a Crow, or since."

"They almost killed you," Fenris said unsteadily, his own arms closing tightly around the smaller elf, holding him close.

Zevran gave a short laugh. "It was not that which scared me. It was my fear that they would kill _you_, right before my eyes..." he broke off, unable to continue.

Fenris knew enough of Zevran's history by now to know of what event the other elf referred to with those words; a time when someone he loved had been slain before him, himself making no effort to save her, _denying_ his love for her, even revelling in her slaughter. At first. Until later, when he realized what he had lost; what she had meant to him. What he had done.

It had almost killed him.

What his fear said about Zevran's feelings for _Fenris_... was not something Fenris felt capable of considering in too much detail right now. Nor his own feelings, or why he had been so horrified during the fight, with Zevran almost defenceless before his attackers, saved only by his superior skill and Fenris' timely return. The mere thought of what might have happened brought a lump to his throat. The two just clung together in silence for a few minutes, regaining their composure.

"You smell like horse," Zevran said after a few minutes, striving for a light-hearted tone but still sounding a little shaky.

"I went for a ride. I'd bought pastries on the way back, for our breakfast... they're probably still on the floor in my sitting room somewhere, if they weren't stepped on by someone."

Zevran smiled crookedly. "We can always buy more. Another time though... right now I am rather without appetite, and with this poison in me that will get worse before it gets better."

"You're sure you're all right?" Fenris asked worriedly, looking closely at the reddened scar that was all that remained of the wound to Zevran's shoulder.

"Yes, I assure you, I will be fine. It would take a considerably larger quantity of this poison to do more than just make me ill for a while. Though the being ill part will likely be unpleasant enough," he explained, then smiled again at Fenris, more warmly this time. "Join me in the bath. _Just_ for a bath. We both need one anyway."

Fenris nodded in agreement, no more wanting to leave the other elf's side right now than Zevran apparently did.

It was a very quiet bath, without any of the activities they normally got into together; for all that they wanted to be physically close to each other, neither of them was in the mood for any actual intimacy. Once they were both clean they just sat in the water for a while, Zevran leaning back against Fenris, the warrior's arms wrapped around him.

"We're going to turn into raisins," Zevran said eventually, picking up Fenris' hand and holding it where he could look at it, putting his other hand beside it to compare how wrinkled their fingertips were.

"The water is getting cool," Fenris said, in oblique agreement, and leaned down to press a single light kiss to the back of Zevran's neck. Zevran squeezed his hand, then rose, water sheeting off of him, and gave him a hand up.

They dried and dressed in silence. Zevran was looking pale, Fenris noticed, and sweating slightly, his lips pursed. Undoubtedly the effects of the poison.

"Do my hair for me?" Zevran asked. "My shoulder and side are sore enough still that I would rather not be lifting my arms to comb and braid it."

Fenris nodded, and the two sat on the edge of the bed, Zevran staring unseeingly at the nearby window while Fenris combed out his damp hair, then divided and braided the long forelocks that served to keep the bulk of it neatly back from his face. After fastening the long braids back, he touched his fingers to Zevran's chin, turning the assassin's face toward his. He studied Zevran for a moment, frowning at the sweat beading the smaller elf's forehead. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Nauseated. It will pass."

Fenris nodded, then leaned forward and kissed him, lightly.

Zevran smiled, reaching up to touch his cheek, and then kissed him as well; a little longer, but without any real passion. "Later," he said quietly as he sat back, letting his hand drop down to his lap. "Right now there is a Crow to deal with, if I can."


	9. The Magpie's Voice

Fenris' bedroom had been cleared of bodies and cleaned, the bed re-made, no sign remaining of the fight that taken place there that morning. Zevran had the woman brought there, and securely tied to a heavy chair, saying only that waking to the location of her defeat with all signs of it already erased should help to place her in the proper frame of mind. He had a second chair brought in – a comfortably padded armchair – and a small table, and sat down in it facing her, with a pot of good tea and a plate of little cookies by his side. He had changed his clothes, after spending a couple of hours carefully checking his own rooms for any sign of intrusion and finding none. He was now wearing a particularly fine outfit, and looked every inch a gentleman at leisure.

"Stand there, by the door, with your sword out," he asked Fenris, gesturing to where he meant. Fenris nodded and took up position, the point of his sword on the floor, his hands resting lightly around the hilt. Zevran took a final look around the room, then nodded to Anders. The mage stepped forward and lightly touched his hands to the woman's head, then quickly left the room, to wait in the sitting room with Sebastian and a group of guards while Zevran spoke with the woman.

She roused quickly, eyes blinking opened even as Anders was stepping out the door. She looked groggy at first, then spotted Zevran. Immediately she was alert, her faced stilled.

"You are thinking that I should have killed you, and wondering why I did not," Zevran said, as he poured himself a cup of tea. "You are wondering if you can still manage to kill me, so that you will not have failed in your task after all." He looked up and smiled thinly at her. "Am I right?" he asked, and sipped at his tea.

She ignored him for a minute or two, looking around the room, testing her bonds. He waited patiently, taking another sip of his tea and then nibbling on a sugar-topped cookie. Finally she turned her attention back to him, and studied him for a moment before finally speaking. "_Sí, tiene razón_."

Zevran held up one finger. "Common tongue, please. I would prefer that my good friend with the very large sword be able to follow our conversation."

She turned and looked at Fenris, then looked back to Zevran. "Fine. You are right; that is more-or-less what I was thinking," she said calmly. "Why have you not killed me?"

"Because I have a use for you. A message that I need delivered to someone in Antiva."

"The Crows will kill me, for failing to kill you," she pointed out. "I can deliver no such message."

"No, they will not," he said, and smiled slightly, putting down his teacup and biscuit. He folded his hands over his stomach. "You see, I can offer you something that was not open to me, when I failed."

"And that is?" she asked coolly, giving him a look of distrust.

"_La voz de la urraca_," he said calmly.

"The _magpie's voi_..." she started to exclaim, sounding genuinely shocked, then broke off, darting a look at Fenris, then frowned at Zevran. "How? I do not believe you."

Zevran was grinning now, looking pleased with himself. "It is a long story. The short form of it is that a Crow cell that had been sent after me took it into their heads to try and make use of the little-known fact that my old training master still sends me missives every now and then – whatever else has happened, he still considers me one of the finest assassins he has ever trained, and cares little that I am now an ex-Crow, as it were. Naturally he makes use of a Magpie for such missives; otherwise I would likely kill the messenger before they could ever get close enough to deliver their message."

She was looking grim now. "They would have had to kill the Magpie, to seal his lips, else be killed for their treachery."

"Just so," Zevran agreed. "A desperate and foolish plan, I am sure you will agree. Anyway, the messenger is always the same man, known to me by sight, so they needed to keep him alive until I arrived. They captured and drugged him, and set things up so it looked as if he was sitting waiting for me to arrive. I was lucky; I realized something was wrong before stepping into their trap; he was never one for sitting, you see, he always preferred to pace back and forth. And an old injury from his days as a Crow before he became a Magpie meant that when he did sit, he sat in a rather specific way so as to avoid stretching the old scar. They were foolish enough that they did not take the time to learn details about him such as that. Anyway, I turned the trap on them, and killed them all."

He paused, and picked up his tea again, taking another sip before continuing. "He was quite incensed by their actions when he woke from his drugging; he swore to see that the master who'd sent them after me paid for their crime, as the one most obviously responsible for their failure to maintain proper respect for his post. He also felt that my own actions in the situation were honourable enough that he decided to see to it that I had the power to send a message to the Crows, not just to receive them. He gave me a seal and word, and taught me the signs to teach to someone, so I could _make_ a Magpie, if ever I felt there was something important enough to justify doing so."

"_Gave_ you a seal? But..."

"Yes, something only the Grand-Master of the messenger birds can do. They were very great fools, that cell, thinking that messages for me would be entrusted to any _common_ Magpie." He grinned at her again, very widely. "So you see, I can save your life, if you are willing to carry a message for me. And I assure you that once you see the content of what I wish to send," he added, suddenly looking and sounding grim, and every inch the cold-blooded assassin, "That you will see why I wish to make use of this grant of power at this time. I assure you the message I wish delivered is in the best interest of the Crows, and not in my own."

She studied his face intently, then gave a very tiny nod. "Show me the seal," she said.

Zevran extracted a ring from a pouch on his belt, and held it out where she could see it. She peered closely at it, then abruptly nodded. "All right. I will take your word for truth that you can indeed preserve my life, even after this failure. Release me, and give me this message you wish sent."

"A-ah-ah, not quite yet. The tattoo, first of all, so that you won't be tempted to change your mind and try to kill me after all."

"A sensible precaution," she agreed, making a slight face.

"Very good. Fenris, you may sheath your sword. Kindly bring me the kit I left on the bedside table."

Fenris nodded, and walked around behind the woman to fetch the box that Zevran had left out of her sight. It was as long as his forearm, about four inches wide, and half that deep. Zevran thanked him and put it down on the table, pushing the cookies and tea to one side, and opened the box. It was filled with a number of small tightly-sealed glass jars, and several nasty-looking implements, rather like painter's brushes in shape but instead of ending in soft tufts of bristles they were tipped with clusters of fine needles. There was also a pair of scissors, a small folding razor, and a whetstone. A tattooing kit, Fenris realized.

Zevran moved his chair to a position beside the woman, then pulled the table close and busied himself sorting through the bottles of ink, shaking and setting down some of them, returning others to the box. He set out a selection of the tools, then pushed back his sleeves and looked evaluatingly at the woman. "The right side of your face, I think. It will look very dramatic there. Or would you prefer it on wrist and hand? I cannot offer you too easily concealable a location, for obvious reasons."

She tilted her head thoughtfully to one side, then wiggled the fingers of her right hand. "Hand and wrist. Long sleeves or a half-glove will hide it sufficiently when I prefer to go unnoticed, and it can be rather dramatically exposed when I wish to make a point of it."

Zevran grinned. "A fine choice," he said agreeably. "I will of course have to untie your arm to do so. Do not attempt anything rash. I feel obliged to once again draw your attention to my friend's fine sword," he added, gesturing at Fenris. "I am sure you will be careful not to give him any reason to unsheathe it again."

"Of course," she said, very dryly.

"Good," he said, and nodded, then untied her right arm. He drew back her sleeve, then tilted her hand from side to side, touching fingertips lightly to her skin, sketching in a shape as he talked. "The head on the back of your hand, of course. I think the wings half-folded, so they wrap around to the inside of your wrists, almost meeting here on the underside of the forearm, but far enough back to avoid the area on the inner wrist here where there are so many veins. Does it suit?" he asked.

She nodded in agreement.

"Good. I will teach you the words and signs while I work. Might I know your name?" he asked, almost formally.

She studied his face again, then shrugged slightly. "Why not. It makes no difference, after all is said and done. I am Piera d'Estrella."

Zevran smiled, then took up the first tool and bent over her wrist. "I will not say it is a pleasure to meet you, Piera, not given the circumstances, but I will hope we may at least not be enemies in future."

* * *

Fenris watched as Anders healed the woman's wrist again. Zevran had let him and Sebastian come in once he'd finished inking in the overall shape of the bird he was tattooing on the woman's wrist. At intervals he had the mage heal the work done so far, then cleaned her wrist and began work again with the next colour he needed, the healing allowing him to get the tattoo completed in a single lengthy session instead of spread out over time as it would otherwise need to have been. He'd untied the rest of her bonds before starting on the third colour; by then it was obvious what bird the tattoo was meant to be, and clearly he felt there was nothing more to fear from her.

The two of them had talked at some length while he was working on the first inking, their heads together and voices low, speaking in Antivan to maintain the secrecy of what they were saying. A couple of times Zevran had asked Fenris to turn away, while he showed the woman some signal she needed to know how to properly make. She'd relaxed over the course of the afternoon, and was now sitting cross-legged, leaning forward and to one side to watch while Zevran carefully inked in the final touches on her tattoo, Sebastian and Anders watching attentively as well, the Prince clearly intrigued by the process and Anders merely waiting patiently while it was completed.

"You do very good work," Piera said approvingly, smiling as she looked over the colourful tattoo wrapped around her wrist, every feather carefully delineated, and the wings and tail coloured in with assorted blue, violet, and green inks to suggest the iridescent colouring of the real bird's feathers.

"I always aim to excel at anything I attempt," Zevran said, grinning again and earning a soft snort from pretty much everyone present, which made him grin even more widely. "I succeed with shocking frequency."

Zevran sat back, and signalled for Anders to come over and heal her wrist a final time. He capped and put away the last bottle he'd been using – white ink, for the tips of the long flight feathers, and a few highlights here and there – then stood the needle-tipped instruments in a glass of strong spirits he'd had brought in for the purpose, and put them aside for a more complete cleaning later.

He took out the ring again, and held it up, then took Piera's right hand in his. He spoke briefly in Antivan, expression and voice both very formal. She responded, and he spoke again, the two going back and forth for several minutes in what was obviously some sort of oath-taking ceremony. Finally he nodded, and slipped the ring on the middle finger of her hand.

When he released it she sat a moment, very still, just looking down at the ring and the tattoo on her hand, then sighed and closed her hand tightly. "It is done," she said, sounding faintly surprised.

"Yes. You are no longer a Crow, though you must still answer to their authority in times of need. Pending acceptance by the Grand-Master of the Magpies, but that is a formality only," Zevran added, making a dismissive gesture with one hand, then turned and smiled at Sebastian. "I am famished. Do you mind if I invite our new acquaintance to join us for dinner?" he said. Sebastian nodded acceptance, rising to his feet, and Zevran rose as well, waiting while Piera rose to her feet and then offering her his arm. She raised an eyebrow, but set her hand on his arm and allowed him to guide her steps.

The group of them retired to Sebastian's rooms after that. If seemed very odd to be sitting down at table with a woman who only that morning had been doing her best to kill Zevran, but as he seemed to act as if she could be trusted now, the rest of them could hardly fail to do the same.

The manner in which he spoke to her had changed markedly since he'd placed the ring on her finger; the formal deference with which he treated her made it obvious that her status had increased significantly. It was made even more clear when he asked her permission to explain the Magpies to the rest of their group once they'd all seated and been served. She nodded, and he thanked her before turning to speak to the others.

"As you have no doubt gathered by now, the Magpies are a branch of the Crows. There are situations in which messages must be sent; messages that must not be tampered with, nor exposed to the wrong parties. Messages whose provenance must be truthfully sworn to. Messages that must travel between people who would as soon kill each other as speak to each other, with it being clear the messenger is a neutral party to their dispute and not to be harmed by either nor cause harm to either without due cause. The sort of messages that cannot be entrusted to just any passing pair of feet, in other words. And so, the Magpies, the messenger birds of the Crows. They will give their life to protect a message that is in their charge, if necessary. Though such is their reputation that it very seldom is, since among other things anyone who seeks to interfere with their duties earns the wrath of the Crows. A much more active wrath than something like my simple failure to carry out an assignment has earned me, and usually ending in a far more horrific death than anything likely awaiting me."

Sebastian nodded thoughtfully. "And now that Piera is a Magpie, she can carry such a message for you. I believe that I begin to see what you intend," he said, then turned to the woman, bowing across the table at her. "If you are shown documents – ones that we cannot, unfortunately, allow out of our possession – can you make a true copy of them, and swear to their authenticity?"

"Yes," she said. "That is one of the services Magpies are often called on to perform within Antiva. Naturally I would only be able to attest to the accuracy of the copy, in relationship to the documents I was shown, and not the truthfulness or provenance of those documents themselves."

"That should be sufficient," Sebastian said, sounding pleased. "Would you prefer to start tonight, or wait and begin tomorrow? I fear it will take some time to show you everything."

"And I will need to pen a letter or two to accompany everything," Zevran pointed out.

"I would prefer to wait until tomorrow," Piera said. "This has been a most tiring day. Even if I do seem to have slept through most of it," she added, a sudden wry smile lighting her face. "I would like some time to get used to the idea of _this_, too" she said, lifting up her right hand and turning it to display the tattoo and seal-ring. "It is a rather unexpected elevation."

Sebastian nodded. "Then after the meal I will see you provided with a guest suite, and some changes of clothing – unless you have some of your own about that you'd prefer retrieved?" he suggested.

She shook her head. "I brought nothing of any value here with me," she said. "I expected to be fleeing very quickly after accomplishing Zevran's death, if I even survived our attempt," she said, and nodded to the elf. "He has gained a very lethal reputation, you understand; we though we had perhaps a one in three chance of accomplishing our goal. Or at least _I_ thought so; the master of our cell was rather more optimistically inclined."

"And your master is...?" Zevran asked, and when she gave him a stern look, smiled. "Well, you cannot blame me for being curious, and hoping you might be indiscreet enough to mention a name. I am sure the number of masters willing to sacrifice well-trained assassins in the hope of killing me off must be dropping steadily."

She smiled again at that. "You would suppose correctly. Including my master – my ex-master, I suppose I should say now – I doubt there are more than half a dozen still actively pursuing your death. There are of course many who would take your life if they saw an easy opportunity to do so, but sending cells after you..." she paused, and shrugged. "You have proven once again how much of a waste of resources such a move is."

Zevran smiled widely, and bowed his head to her, taking her comment as a compliment. Which, given that they were both Crows, it probably was.

They turned their conversation to innocuous subjects after that; the likelihood of a good harvest. Fenris' desire to ride out to the royal horse-farms in a few days time and consult with Sebastian's head horse-master about his plans to start a horse-breeding operation of his own. Minor news about the progress of work on extending the city walls, and the construction in the new area of the city. They were all very conscious of Piera being there, a stranger sitting in on their conversation.

She seemed aware of it too, and as soon as the meal ended, gracefully excused herself, pleading a need to have some time to herself. Sebastian promptly summoned a servant, and gave orders that saw a guest suite of rooms assigned to her, and suitable clothing to be procured for her use.

Only once she was gone did he turn an enquiring look on Zevran. "Should I assign a guard to her?" he asked.

"No. It would be a great insult; she has accept the seal, and is now committed to carrying a message from me. It would cost her life to flee now; if she shows up in Antiva with that tattoo and that seal without a message from me, the grand-master of the Magpies would be most harsh in denying her claim to be one of his flock."

Sebastian nodded. "Very well. Until tomorrow then," he said. "Send word before bringing her to my rooms in the morning; I will have everything ready to show her in my study here, and supplies for any copying and writing that must be done."

Zevran nodded, then he and Fenris said their good-byes, and left together.


	10. The Messenger

The servants had done a fine job on clothing the woman, Zevran noted as she joined them in Sebastian's suite after breakfast the next day. She was wearing a simple gown of dark blue silk trimmed in gold cord, most of its effect coming from the flowing folds of the material, which emphasized her height and slenderness.

Sebastian was very courteous to her, leading the way into his private study and giving her his own chair behind the desk. He had a leather folder already set out on it, and opened it himself to display the documents within. "Anders and Zevran can explain best how these came to be in our hands," he told her. "I suggest you read them first."

She nodded. Sebastian withdrew, he, Anders, and the two elves sitting down nearby and waiting while she carefully read over each page in silence. Her face was very still when she finally looked up, her eyes seeking out Zevran. "I can see why you feel it necessary to send a message to the Crows," she said calmly. "I will need paper, ink, a pen..."

"All in the drawer to your right," Sebastian informed her. "Would you like some refreshments while you work?"

"Yes. Tea, and some biscuits or cookies perhaps? This will take me some hours of work to copy out."

"Of course," Sebastian said, and rose to go summon a servant himself. "Would you like us to stay and answer any questions you might have, or...?"

"Leave Zevran here for now, please. I will wish to speak to the rest of you afterwards, but that can wait until I have finished copying out the documents."

Sebastian nodded. "I'll be in my office if I am needed," he said.

"And I'll be at the clinic," Anders said, rising to his own feet.

Fenris exchanged a look with Zevran, then also rose. "I'll go riding, I think. I will be back by lunch."

The three left, closing the door behind them. Piera had already opened the desk drawer, and was setting out everything she'd need to copy the documents. "Explain to me everything you know or suspect about the provenance of these documents," she ordered.

Zevran hid a smile as he moved to take a seat beside the desk, pleased that the woman was turning out to be a highly intelligent one; he suspected the grand-master of the Magpies would be quite pleased with her. _He_ certainly was.

"It's a very long story, and has its roots in events in Kirkwall, going back to long before the destruction of the chantry there..." he began.

* * *

Piera was seated on the corner of the desk, leaning over to watch closely as Zevran made a very careful rubbing of each seal attached to the documents, a task he was more skilled at than she, when Sebastian knocked quietly and opened the door, leaning in to tell them lunch was being served.

"Good, we will be done shortly," Zevran said distractedly, carefully lifting the tissue-thin sheet of paper off of the seal and blowing on it gently to remove any loose charcoal dust. Piera examined it carefully, nodded, and signed the paper beneath the seal, before folding it away within a sheet of heavier paper, and sealing that with a dot of hot wax and her own seal ring, rendering it as tamper-proof as she could. She noted on the outside which document that seal had been affixed to, and put it aside with a small pile of similar packets.

"Do you have a box I can lock all this away in?" she asked Sebastian, looking his way as she gestured at the packets and stack of neatly copied papers. "If possible these should not leave my side for any reason from now until I deliver them in Antiva."

"I will find you one," Sebastian said, and disappeared off again, returning again some ten minutes later carrying a small chest of smoothly-polished dark wood, trimmed with polished brass strapping and having a handle in each end, and a hasp and staple where a padlock could be attached. "Will this suffice?" he asked, setting it down carefully on the desk and opening it to reveal the cedar-lined interior.

"Quite well," Piera agreed, and transferred all of the papers and packets inside of it. She stripped off a length of the decorative cording laced up one of her sleeves, and threaded it through the hasp, then wrapped it around the box and tied it off with an intricate knot. "That will do until I can properly seal it," she said, then lifted up the box by the handles and looked questioningly at Sebastian. "I believe you mentioned lunch?" she asked.

The box sat in her lap during the meal, one of her hands always resting on its lid. She asked questions of Anders, Fenris, and the Prince, having them tell her their own view of events, nodding at intervals, a faint frown on her face.

"When will you wish to depart?" Zevran eventually asked. "I have still to write several letters for you to take with you."

"How soon can you have those done? I could stay another night if needed," she said. "But the sooner I am underway, the better."

Sebastian spoke up. "Do you need anything to speed your journey? I believe it is in my own best interest to offer you any help I can."

She smiled faintly. "A fast horse – no, two fast horses – travelling supplies, and some quantity of gold would be the best help I could have."

He nodded. "You shall have it. I can give you a pair of the mounts my own couriers ride; they are not the fastest of my mounts, but they have something rather more important, which is great endurance."

She looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. "A good point. A consistent rate over long distances is more likely to be important than a fast turn of foot. I am at least unlikely to be pursued, since no one but you few know that I will be making the journey, yes?"

"Yes," Zevran agreed. "A few of the guards and servants are aware of your presence in the castle, of course, but as far as I know none but we four know what you now are, or what that signifies. At least, I sincerely hope so; I would hate to think I've managed to miss ferreting out any others whose loyalty is not to Prince Sebastian since becoming aware of the presence of yourself and your party here."

She smiled faintly again. "Good. Then I will set out as soon as the additional letters and what I need for my journey are prepared."

"In that case, I will cut short this excellent lunch, and go and do some writing. May I make use of your study, Sebastian?"

"Of course. And I will see to organizing everything else that is needed," Sebastian said, rising to his feet and bowing slightly to Piera before he hurried off as well.

Zevran settled in behind Sebastian's desk, and took out several sheets of paper, then swiftly penned his letters; one to his old training master, and another for the grand-master of the Magpies. He considered whether or not to write a third letter, to the grand-master of the Crows themselves, then decided against it. Either Piera and what she carried would convince the man to take action of some kind, or it would not. No words from him, a disgraced Crow, were likely to sway the man's decision. He carefully folded and sealed both letters, smirking slightly as he marked them with his official seal as the Bann of Blackmarsh; it amused him that he was now a Ferelden noble, which must almost certainly have caused some degree of consternation among the more politically minded Crow masters; he'd certainly seen a sharp down-turn in assassination attempts after Soria and Alistair had forced the title on him.

When he re-emerged from the study, he found the room empty except for Fenris, sitting at ease on a chair near the unlit fireplace, a contemplative look on his face. The other elf looked up and smiled warmly at his approach. "The woman has gone to change into clothing more suited for riding," he said. "We are to meet her at her rooms."

Zevran nodded, and the two headed off together. Piera answered on the first knock, already dressed in breeches, a shirt and boots suitable for riding, with all her weapons returned to her. The chest sat on a table with a pair of well-stuffed saddlebags, a padlock and key, an empty canvas bag, and a length of rope.

Piera accept his two letters, glancing at the outside of each to see whom they were addressed to, then nodded. "I will see they get to their recipients untouched... this I swear," she said solemnly, then walked over and stripped off the length of cord still holding the little chest closed, and tucked them away inside it. She padlocked the chest shut, putting the key carefully away in one of her belt pouches, then wove the rope in a net around it, threading it through the handles and the hasps of both chest and padlock, finishing it all off with a large, intricate knot. The whole affair was then slipped into the canvas sack, some loose clothing shoved in around it to mask the shape of the chest within, and the bag knotted closed as well.

"Bring the saddlebags, please," she asked as she picked up the unwieldy sack herself. Zevran nodded, and picked them up himself.

Fenris led the way to the stables, where Sebastian was waiting, talking to a groom who was holding two horses ready. The saddlebags and chest were quickly fastened on behind the saddle of the horse she'd first be riding. Sebastian passed her a purse, and she tied it to her belt, then bowed to both him and Zevran before swinging up into the saddle and accepting the reins.

"I wish you a safe and swift journey," Sebastian said to her.

She nodded to him, then exchanged a look with Zevran. "I will carry out your commission with as much dispatch as I can," she said, then smiled. "Thank you for my life. I have a feeling it will only get more interesting from now on."

"Likely," Zevran agreed with a grin, and bowed very deeply as she touched heels to her horse's flanks and set off, the second mount following behind on its lead rein.

They watched her leave. "How long will it take her?" Sebastian asked after she was out of sight.

"With luck, no more than a week. As to whether or not we'll hear anything as a result of her journey..." he fell silent, then shrugged. "It is out of our hands now, in any case."


	11. Tryst and Trust

"Word from Tantervale? What is it?" Zevran asked sharply, looking questioningly at Sebastian.

Sebastian paused in serving lunch to himself, and smiled briefly at the elf. "What we expected. The Grand Cleric is still there, and seems to be settling in to stay for some time. She has, however, been joined by additional templars, I am told – it sounds like they came overland from the south, possibly via Kirkwall, though my informant could not find out for sure."

Fenris frowned at that. "Through Kirkwall? What of Aveline then?"

Sebastian also frowned. "I wish I knew. I sent her another message just over a week ago; it will be a while yet before I hear anything back, unless travellers come in with news from the south," he said, then looked questioningly at Zevran. "And you? Have you heard anything?"

Zevran shook his head. "No. Nor do I really expect to; I am not a Crow any longer, after all. Whatever decision the guild chooses to take after they receive my message is up to them. Perhaps in time I might be able to guess what their response was, depending on who does or does not turn up inexplicably dead."

"They would really do that?" Anders asked. "Interfere in this mess themselves?"

"Of course. The chantry were fools to include an eventual invasion and annexation of Antiva in their plans. The Crows will not like such a plan. They may well chose to make their displeasure felt in the way they are most comfortable using – through the deaths of those that have offended them. As I have said before, in Antiva, the Crows _are_ politics."

Sebastian nodded. "Well, there being little more we can do to influence the Crows than has already been done, I think we should concentrate on things we _can_ influence. Such as our own preparedness here in Starkhaven. I have begun building up the size of our standing army, and have sent word to all my nobles that they should be prepared to provide levies on short notice. I'm also arranging a watch and preliminary defence in the direction of Tantervale, so that they cannot march on us without word outpacing them."

"You should have a watch downstream as well," Fenris spoke up. "It is a long way round, but if Orlais has reinforced Odile in Tantervale, they may think to send forces to the east, and come up the river, hoping to catch you in a pincer."

"Hrmm. A good point," Sebastian agreed. "For that matter, if they _did_ force a landing in Kirkwall, the first we might hear of it in any definite way could be an attack over the southern passes."

That led to a three-way conversation between Sebastian, Fenris and Anders as to what might be done to be sure they had warning of attack from the south or the east; the only direction they didn't have to worry about, they felt, was the north, since Antiva was to the northeast and the Tevinter Empire across a mountain range to the north and northwest.

"You're being very quiet, Zevran," Sebastian said after a while, and gave the elf a questioning look.

"Mmmm, yes. I am thinking that I have responsibilities to more than just Antiva or Starkhaven. As pleasant a place as this may be, and as much as I have enjoyed my lengthy visit here... I fear it is time for me to move on. I owe allegiance elsewhere, and Ferelden is at much at risk in this as you are here; perhaps even more so, being a direct neighbour of Orlais as they are."

Sebastian nodded slowly. "I fear you are right," he agreed. "You mean to return to Ferelden, then?"

"Yes, and soon," he said, then turned to look at Fenris. "I wish you to come with me, if you can; I know you have obligations here, and will understand if you do not feel free to travel with me. But... I wish it very much."

Fenris gazed at Zevran silently for a long moment, then glanced at Sebastian before answering. "I have a few things I should take care of before I go," he said neutrally. "But if you can wait until those are done, then yes, I would like to travel with you."

Zevran smiled broadly. "Can you be ready within two weeks? I would prefer to reach Ferelden by sometime in the fall at the latest – winter travel there is an excessively annoying affair. Not to mention being blasted cold."

Fenris smiled crookedly and nodded. "I can be ready," he agreed.

"I will be sorry to see you both go," Sebastian said. "But I know it is needful. And I am sure you will return," he added, smiling warmly at both elves. "Fenris has roots here now, as you do in Ferelden, after all."

Zevran nodded. "Yes, we will hopefully be back early next spring. Possibly the winter, if it seems necessary, but I sincerely hope it is not."

That won a smile from Anders, who knew from personal experience just how uncomfortable and difficult winter travel in Ferelden was.

"What route will you take? Riverboat, or south over the passes?" Sebastian asked.

"I think south to Kirkwall would be wisest; going east takes me far closer to Antiva than I am comfortable with," Zevran said. "And I am not overly fond of travel by boat."

"Do you get seasick?" Anders asked curiously.

Zevran smiled. "No. Just that there are very few places one can run away to on a boat before one generally runs out of boat and into a considerable quantity of deep water. One has rather more options on dry land."

"A good point," Anders agreed, grinning now.

"If we leave to the south we can also stop at my estate on the way, which would allow me to take care of some of the things I need to do before leaving," Fenris said. "I would like to make a trip out to the royal stud farm to consult with the stable-master there, before I go, among other things."

Zevran nodded. "I have a few things to wrap up before I leave, as well. Including putting in some extra training sessions with Pic before we go; I regret that I must leave before he is fully trained to my satisfaction. But his value lies mostly in that few will suspect that he has any skill at all; unless someone sends Crows against you, Pic is likely to be overlooked as a source of protection for young Ewan. And I suspect the Crows will be busy elsewhere this season, and highly unlikely to be open to commissions from the chantry."

"I will hope you are right," Sebastian said. "And I will also hope that the chantry are my only remaining foes right now."

* * *

It was likely going to be one of their last morning rides before they set out for Ferelden, Fenris found himself thinking a little over a week later as he and Zevran exited the city, riding knee-to-knee on Aer and Feo.

He'd made a trip out to the royal stud farm, and hired a well-trained groom from there to be his own stable-master, on the recommendation of Sebastian's stable-master. He'd also hired the royal stable-master to consult on the construction of suitable stables at Brynhir, and contracted with a well-regarded firm to plan and build them. Sebastian himself had volunteered to keep an eye on things and make sure the plans were adequate without being grandiose, and that construction would begin and be carried out during Fenris' lengthy absence.

Zevran had been doing extra training with Pic every day, as well as spending several lengthy sessions in quiet conversation with both the elven boy and Dylan, young Prince Ewan's more obvious adult bodyguard. Doubtless making sure the pair were up to speed on providing the best possible care for Ewan and Niawen, Sebastian's two young heirs.

Ewan was the legitimate son of Goren Vael and his wife Johanna, who was niece to Johain Harriman, the woman who'd been behind the murder of Sebastian's family. Niawen was the unacknowledged bastard daughter of Sebastian's middle brother Nicholas. As Fenris understood it, their claims on the throne worked out roughly equal; Niawen was more closely related to the ruling family, but her father had never had a chance to know about her, much less acknowledge her, before his death; only her physical resemblance to Nicholas and the word of her mother Meridwen that Nicholas was the only man she had lain with gave her any connection to the Vael family at all. Ewan's connection was much more distant – Goren had been a minor noble, a distant cousin of the Vael family, before their deaths – but he _was_ legitimate, and his father _had_ held the throne, however briefly. That Ewan's maternal great-aunt had arranged the slaughter of almost the entire Vael family, and that Ewan's own mother had been a blood-mage who'd sought to slay Sebastian as well... well, Sebastian did not blame his now-orphaned young cousin for the crimes of his relatives, and had named him as his heir before finding out about Niawen's existence.

Zevran said he thought the most likely solution to solving the puzzle of their precedence would be for the two to marry when they were older. Fenris suspected he was right; it would certainly prevent the sort of dynastic wars that Zevran said often ran rife in Antiva, where centuries of squabbling and an unfortunate spate of both royal twins and royal bastards – not to mention rather a lot of assassinations, and highly strategic and occasionally forced marriages – had hopelessly muddied the succession. There were, at any given time, the assassin had told him, anywhere from two to two dozen equally valid claimants on the throne, depending on which version of past events was currently in fashion, and who had most recently fallen victim to poison in a cup or a knife in something vital.

No, with Antiva as a clear example of what could happen when the lines of inheritance were not kept clear, it was very likely the children would be engaged when they came of age in a few more years, and married off as soon as it was legally possible to do so, even if it might be some years afterwards before they began to actually live together as man and wife. One could only hope the children would grow up as close enough friends to accept their fate rather than fight it; as they were being raised together, with Niawen's mother as their joint nursemaid, that was at least reasonably likely.

But that was a future worry, and there were things that must be dealt with in the present to ensure that such a future was there to be worried about in the first place. And right now... right now, it was a beautiful late summer morning, and he was with Zevran, and they were riding up a hill to one of their favourite trysting spots for what was likely the last time until after their return next year. Let the future worry about itself for a while; he was determined to think only of their present.

They dismounted at their usual spot, stopping to exchange a lingering kiss, one hand tangled in reins, the other in hair, before they began stripping the tack from their restless horses, freeing them to roam and graze for a while; the horses were well-trained, and would return to the proper whistle, so they had no fear of them straying. Bridles and saddles were piled on a nearby rock, to keep them out of the damp grass; saddle-blankets were spread to give the two of them protection from the same, as well as any little rocks or sharp twigs the grass might hide. And then the best part, the two of them stripping each other, with much gentle touching and teasing kisses and warm smiles, there in the sunlight on the high hilltop, hidden from view only by the height and curve of the hill, and a small woods between them and a nearby laneway that followed the far side of the topmost ridge of it.

Zevran was in an aggressive mood this morning, and Fenris was willing to lie back and let the other elf do whatever he wished. Which this morning seemed to involve quite a lot of skillful touching and the use of Zevran's mouth and fingers in very pleasant ways. He closed his eyes, giving himself over to sensation, the feel of Zevran's mouth on him, the warm sun and soft breeze caressing his skin as much as Zevran's hands did. He would not have believed, before he'd met Zevran, that he could ever take pleasure of any sexual act; not after his years as the plaything of Danarius and Hadriana. Yet the assassin had shown him that there _could_ be pleasure in it, had slowly and patiently taught him how to relax and let himself enjoy being touched, being kissed, to revel in the act rather than fear it.

He remembered a conversation he'd had with Anders at one point, when he'd still feared Zevran as much as he'd been fascinated by him, one morning this spring just past.

"Ultimately, the real difference in feeling tends to lie in the _intent_ behind the act, not the act itself, not even whether it hurts or not, nor in whether it brings you pleasure or not," Anders had explained. "The _true_ difference lies in whether it is something forced on you against your choice, or is something done for pleasure – yourself, another's, or mutual – with agreement but without necessarily having any real emotional involvement with the other person, or is something you are doing with someone you care greatly for, who cares for you as well. In their most simplistic senses, we can refer to these as being raped, having sex, or making love. What you experienced in the past was rape. What you want to do now, with Zevran, is to have sex, or possibly even to make love."

And that had fit with Fenris' own experience; he had already discovered that he enjoyed being kissed by Zevran, an act he had never found pleasant before. And being touched by him, too. It was not long after that conversation that he steeled himself to learn that, yes, he could even enjoy having sex with the other elf. And now... while they had never said the words to each other, at some point he felt that they had crossed that final line. That it was no longer just having sex, this pleasure they shared with each other, but the third thing. _Making love_. Which was, in its way, a deeply terrifying thought, because it meant there was someone he valued... someone he cared for. Someone to fear might be taken away from him, as almost everyone and anything important had been taken from him, over the course of his life.

He carded his fingers into Zevran's long hair, holding him close, petting gently at what parts of him he could reach, drawing an appreciative hum from the assassin as Zevran swallowed him in deep, drawing a low cry of pleasure in turn from Fenris. He wanted _so much_ to say the words... to tell him... but he was frightened to admit it, to say it aloud, the feelings he had for this man. Frightened that admitting it might somehow ruin it, this fragile thing they had built between them since he had almost killed the other elf in the snow one winter's day.

He shivered and cried out again, so aware of Zevran's hand resting on his thigh, the thumb stroking soothingly against the soft inner skin, his other hand buried fingers-deep inside of Fenris, thumb rubbing and pressing against the sensitive spot just back of his balls. And the warmth of him, the moist heat of his mouth. So deadly dangerous when he needed to be, the way he seemed almost to dance when he had his daggers in hand, and yet so gentle when it came to this, the dance of their bodies. So beautiful, golden skin and golden hair and warm golden-brown eyes...

Zevran's mouth moved and fingers pressed _just so_, and Fenris cried out again, arching up off the blanket as he came, the other elf anticipating the motion and moving with it, so that there was no real discomfort for either of them even while Fenris blindly pumped his hips, the movement kept just shallow enough by Zevran's hand on his thigh, gently guiding him back down to the blanket as the orgasm ebbed. He lay there, gulping for air, eyes still shut, vaguely aware of Zevran moving up to stretch out beside him, the other elf's still-rampant erection pressing against the flesh of his thigh, arm draped warmly over him.

"Ah, Zevran, seeing you and your _amante_ like that... it makes me wish I was at least ten years younger," a voice said from nearby; frighteningly nearby, Fenris saw as he started and jumped up, twisting in mid-air to land facing the direction of the threat; a white-haired old man, sitting on the rock beside their saddles. His heart was thudding painfully in his fright at someone having successfully snuck up on them like this, his brands already flaring to full brightness. He leapt for the man, hand drawing back for the plunge forward into the man's breast.

"Fenris, _no!_" Zevran cried, grabbing him by the ankle, yanking backwards so that he crashed full-length on the ground at the old man's feet, knocking the breath right out of him.

He lay there a moment, dazed and still frightened, and stared as Zevran scrambled on his knees over to the old man, grasping the man's hands in his, his face stretched into an excited, happy grin, laughing and crying at the same time as he babbled at him in rapid Antivan, a warm answering smile lifting the corners of the old man's mouth.

A friend then, of some description.

Fenris slowly pushed himself up and knelt, hands moving to cup over himself, feeling uneasy at being naked and unarmed before a stranger. It certainly didn't seem to be something that was giving Zevran any pause at the moment, so he waited patiently for Zevran to explain just what was going on.


	12. The Master

The old man smiled. "Slow down, my Zevran," he gently chided the excited elf, reaching out to touch one wrinkled hand lightly to the tattoos on Zevran's cheek. "You are being rude to your friend, who cannot understand what you are saying. Introduce us."

Zevran flushed, and nodded, then turned to look at Fenris, his eyes still bright and happy. He left his right hand in the old man's grasp, and moved a little away, reaching out with his left to Fenris. Hesitantly, Fenris put his hand in Zevran's, and let the other elf draw him closer to the old man, the two of them still on their knees before the seated figure.

He eyed him suspiciously, evaluating the human. Old, but by no means feeble; his face was deeply lined, his hands wrinkled and with the peculiar transparency of skin of the aged, but he moved with the ease of someone years younger than his apparent age, and while his skin might be slack and spotted, it covered flesh that was still sinewy and strong. Fenris could see the edge of a faded tattoo peeking out the hem of one long sleeve; a Crow, he supposed. A very old one, which undoubtedly meant a highly skilled one.

"Fenris, you have heard me speak of my training-master, yes? This is he," Zevran said excitedly, and grinned. "Master, this is my... this is Fenris."

The old man looked Fenris over curiously, and smiled, then looked back to Zevran. "I suspect it was foolish of me to trust to your reflexes and indulge my sense of humour by sneaking up on the two of you like that," he said, voice grave. "That blue light... I have never seen such. I was close to death then, yes?"

"Yes," said Zevran, soberly. "Though I cannot tell you more than that. It is Fenris' secret to share or not share, not mine."

The old man nodded, then tilted his head slightly as he looked over Fenris a second time. "I will have to guess then. I must believe it is related to those lines in your flesh, since the glow seemed to emanate from them. And that seems to stir a memory, of something I read once in our archives... very old knowledge, long unused, from the days when the Tevinter empire included Antivan soil. You are from Tevinter?"

Fenris shifted uneasily, wishing to take back the hand that Zevran was still holding so he could cover himself more thoroughly; the man had a disconcertingly piercing gaze. Though he had a feeling even fully clothed and armoured, and with weapon in hand, he would still have felt uneasy in this man's presence, revealed to his sharp gaze. "Yes," he admitted.

"Hrmm." The old man frowned thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugged and turned back to Zevran. "It is of no matter. As intriguing as your friend seems, my Zevran, my visit with you must of necessity be quite brief. Though I am pleased to be able to see you at all," he added, a warm smile lighting his face as he looked at the elf.

Zevran laughed, and moved closer to the old man again. "Ah, master, I did not think I would ever see you again in this life!" he exclaimed, and released Fenris' hand to take both his master's hands in his, and bend over them to kiss the backs of them.

Fenris watched uneasily; he would certainly have never greeted _his_ master so warmly, at least not once he'd broken Danarius' hold over him and escaped. On the other hand Danarius would never have touched him as affectionately as this man touched Zevran, freeing one hand from the elf's grasp to gently brush his hair back from his face while smiling fondly down at him.

"I did not think so either, truth be told," the old man said. "But then we received your message."

"Ah, Piera made it through all right then?" Zevran asked, sounding pleased.

"Yes. And Tomas has told me to tell you that he is well-pleased with the newest addition to his flock, and doubly pleased to find his decision to give you the power to make a Magpie so well-used. Pleased enough, indeed, to have entrusted to me a second seal to bring to you, so if you find yourself with another message to send some day, you are again able to do so," he said, and reached two fingers into the neck of his robe, pulling out a seal-ring on a chain. He freed his other hand from Zevran's grasp and undid the chain, dropping it and the seal into Zevran's hands.

"You are not here just to give me this, I am sure," Zevran said, looking questioningly at the man as he fastened the chain around his own neck.

"No, I am not, regretfully. This is merely one stop on a longer journey. I am an old man. I will likely die soon. Before I do, I have decided to make a pilgrimage to the great Chantry of Val Royeaux and pray to the Maker for guidance."

Zevran's face grew very sober then. "One man, alone?"

"Not alone, no. These woods are full of Crows today," he remarked, waving vaguely at the strip of trees in back of him. He smiled when Zevran and Fenris stiffened. "Fear not. They are under very strict orders to leave you alone; your message has won you a certain degree of leniency for a time. As myself and several other masters have pointed out, you are now a Bann of Ferelden, and it would be useful for the Ferelden King to be well-acquainted with the threat Orlais currently poses to his kingdom, among others. And while he currently has nothing to fear from the Crows, there are yet the Orlesian bards to consider. It is our thinking that it would be wise for you to make a journey south to your home and see to the security of your king. I would suggest you making such a trip south, were I not already certain you have such planned anyway."

Zevran grinned, and nodded his head. "We leave in a few days, Fenris and I," he said, gesturing at Fenris as he spoke. "I hope to be in Ferelden by the fall."

"Very good," the old man said, then sighed. "Ah, my Zevran – I regret that I cannot spend more time with you. It has been long and long since last we two saw each other, and even if this trip to Orlais does not see my end, I fear we will not meet again this side of the Fade. I regret that your path has taken you away from the Crows, and yet I am proud of you still. You are the best I have ever trained, and even having gone your own way, you have proven through this that you are yet a Crow at heart."

"I am Antivan," Zevran said quietly, voice thick with emotion. "No matter where I am, no matter what I do, it will always be the place I think of first when I think of the word home, even if I cannot return there. Even if I am no longer strictly speaking a Crow, I can hardly sit by and do nothing when some foreign meddler wishes to interfere in my country."

The old man nodded, then levered himself to his feet, and pulled Zevran upright. Fenris rose as well, having no wish to remain on his knees. "I must go; I have a long and necessarily roundabout way yet to travel before I reach Val Royeaux and I, too, would prefer to be there by the fall. I am too old to enjoy travelling in the wet and cold. I will send you word, when and if I can. And if not I, than Tomas will," he said, and embraced Zevran, muttering something in one ear that made the elf laugh and blush a deep red. And then he kissed Zevran; not a dry peck on the cheek, but a deep open-mouthed kiss that made it very clear that their relationship had been much more than just that of teacher and student.

Fenris found himself blushing, watching the pair of them, and felt... hurt, somehow. He knew Zevran had had many other lovers before him, but this was the first time he had seen him with one. Apart from Isabela, and her he had at least known well enough himself to know that there was nothing special between herself and Zevran. Yet seeing Zevran so openly accept another's kiss... a kiss that so clearly _was_ special... it bothered him. Worse, it bothered him that it bothered him. It was not like they had ever promised anything to each other about... about only ever being with each other, or anything like that. He didn't _own_ Zevran. Nor would he want to, he thought fiercely, having been owned himself.

It still bothered him, to stand there watching as Zevran was so very thoroughly kissed by the old man, a kiss that by its intensity was just as much a sexual act as what he and Zevran had just been doing. Finally it ended, and the two exchanged some final quiet words in Antivan. He did not know what they were saying, though the old man's tone of voice was kind, and gently chiding, and filled with love and concern as he looked closely into Zevran's face. He stroked Zevran's hair back from his face one last time, finally leaning in to press a single brief kiss to the elf's forehead, before he turned and walked away.

And the _look_ in Zevran's eyes as he watched the old man walking away... it brought a lump to Fenris' own throat. So much there, so very much there between the two of them. A word, a gesture, a glance back from the old man, Fenris thought, and surely Zevran would have run after him, following in the old man's footsteps even if it had meant his own death, there in the woods among the hidden Crows. But the old man did not look back, or do anything but walk away, disappearing eventually among the trees. Zevran just stood there, watching long after he was out of sight, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"Zevran?" Fenris said, uncertainly, after a long time had passed.

Zevran turned to him, and smiled tremulously. "I am sorry, my friend. I need a little time alone," he said huskily, then stooped and picked up his clothes, pulling on his shirt as he walked away through the grass. Fenris wordlessly watched him leave, then slowly dressed himself, and sat down on the rock where the old man had been, waiting for Zevran to return.


	13. The Shaping of Clay

Zevran felt filled with a strange mix of joy and sadness as he walked away. Joy, to have seen his master again, to have spoken with him, touched him, been kissed by him. And sadness, for he knew just how very unlikely it was that he would ever see the man again. His assignment to Val Royeux was a dangerous one; and even if he survived it to return to Antiva, he was a very old Crow now; time would take him soon, even if no blade or poison or simple accident or illness did.

It had been the one thing he truly regretted, when his attempted suicide in Ferelden failed, and Soria had spared his life; the thought that his master would hate him for his failure. He had been his master's prized student, he knew, the old man having had no hesitation in telling him more than once that Zevran was the best Crow that he had ever trained. It had been a source of pride for him, his master's pride in him, and he had _hated _to think that he had failed his master's expectations of him. Yet in his grief after Rinna's loss – Rinna's murder, at Taliesin's hands – he had not been able to make any other choice but to try and self-destruct. And failed, even at that.

It had been barely a month after the end of the Blight when he'd looked around one day in Denerim market and spotted a familiar face in the crowd. He had recognized Tomas, of course, having met him more than once while in his master's company. He had wondered, briefly, who the Magpie might be there to see; perhaps the Crows had not yet heard that Ignacio and his cell had left Ferelden after the events of the recent Landsmeet. Then Tomas had smiled and nodded at him, and walked over to him, and he'd been shocked to realize it was _him_ the message was for, carried by the only Magpie that he knew personally and could therefore be counted on not to kill on sight. A message from his master; very brief, that first one. Just a few words, and his master's seal. "_Todavía eres el hijo de mi corazón_," it had said. You are still the child of my heart.

He had wept, standing there in the busy marketplace, having read those few words.

"Will there be an answer?" Tomas asked him after a while. And when he'd nodded, but been unable to speak; "I will be here again tomorrow at this same time. Bring it to me then." And then Tomas had walked away, leaving Zevran to gather himself together and hurry to his room in the palace, where he stayed up all night with ink and parchment, struggling to put into words all that he wanted to tell his master about everything that had happened to him since the last time they'd met back in Antiva, before Rinna's death, and all the events that had led to him sitting there half a world away, no longer a Crow.

Messages had gone back and forth between them with some regularity after that, always carried by Tomas, and he didn't want to even _think_ about how much it must have cost his old master to hire such a messenger, the grand-master of the Magpies himself, to carry their letters back and forth. Even if his master and Tomas _were_ old friends, it could not have been any minor price.

He sat there in the long grass on the hilltop, struggling to deal with the emotions that seeing his master again had raised in him. It had hurt, a little, seeing how much older and frailer the master had become; he had been old even when Zevran was young, yes, but far from frail, still a vital man even as his hair went steely-grey with age and his skin began to sag and wrinkle. And never less than handsome in Zevran's eyes, who had eventually come to love his master with a passion strong enough that in the end the old man had given in, and even against his better judgement allowed the young elf into his bed. Zevran had never regretted it; he did not think his master had, either.

He had not thought he would ever see his master again. He had really, truly thought not. And now he had, and he was even more certain than ever that they would never meet again. And such a _short_ meeting, with so little the two of them could truly say to each other, there under the eyes of Fenris and the hidden Crows. He wished there had been time; time enough to sit over good wine and good food and just talk for hours, as they sometimes used to. Maybe even time to show his master that old was never too old, with one who loved you. But that was not to be; he would have to satisfied with what few crumbs of time together for them his master had somehow managed to have happen, public and unsatisfactory as it had been, and to be treasured for the rest of his life.

He gave a brief sudden laugh, and curled up, head on his knees and arms wrapped tightly around them, and then cried for a little while, rocking back and forth. Because the sorrow had to come out sometime, and where better than here on a sunlit hilltop, with only the wind whispering through the grasses to hear him, the sun and high clouds to witness his momentary abandonment of all caution.

There was, after a while, the sound of slow footsteps through the grass nearby, the coolness of a shadow across his back. Then a sudden strong nudge that pushed him right over, startling a brief surprised cry out of him. He lay in the grass, grinning up at the two geldings standing looking down at him with their vaguely puzzled expressions, and laughed.

"Ahh, my friends, I am sorry, but I have no treats for you," he scolded them, smiling, and rolled over and up onto his knees. They both promptly moved closer, nosing at his clothes to see if they could smell out anything they'd like to eat. He laughed again, and scratched at their chins and behind their ears before rising to his feet, a hand on each warm neck. "Fenris will be worrying," he told them, very seriously, as if they could understand his words. "We should go back."

He walked back along the hilltop, the two horses trailing amiably along to either side of him, heads lowering occasionally to crop some particularly attractive morsel out of the grasses and flowers growing wild there. Fenris was where he'd left him, sitting on the rock with their tack, the blankets still spread out on the ground nearby. Zevran felt his heart lift at the sight of him, and smiled as Fenris rose to his feet. He could tell by the warrior's guarded expression that Fenris was worried, perhaps even feeling uncertain. So he walked straight over to him, and took him by the hand.

"I am sorry," he said. "I should not have left like that, without so much as a word of explanation. Come, let us sit and speak for a while," he said, gesturing to the blankets.

Fenris nodded stiffly. "All right," he said. But he dug around in his saddlebag first, taking out a wrapped packet of baked goods, and silently tore a sweet pastry in half to share between the two horses before he finally walked over to the blanket and sat down. Zevran joined him, feeling a little anxious now, noticing how Fenris did not look at him, but concentrated on the packet in his hands instead, carefully refolding the wrappings around it.

"I have hurt you," Zevran said. Fenris did look at him then, a startled glance, then flushed and looked away. "I have hurt you," Zevran repeated, "Though it was never my intent to do so. You are perhaps worried, after seeing my master and I together, about how many other lovers I have out there, how close to them I might be. That you are just one among many people that I have slept with, and perhaps you fear that this means that you are not important to me."

Again that startled glance, followed by a lowering of Fenris' head. "Yes," he said, voice barely above a whisper, sounding ashamed of the admission. And fidgeted, opening the package again to take out a little iced cake, which he took a single bite of and then just sat there looking down, not chewing, the square of cake held in his fingers.

"I will not lie to you," Zevran said, his own voice a little unsteady. "I have had many lovers, this is true. I have never hid such from you. Most of them are just good friends, with whom it was enjoyable to share the pleasures of the body. Some were even enemies, and of course there were those that I slept with only because it meant I could get close enough to kill them. But there have only ever been a handful that I lo... that I..." He had to stop for a moment, cursing mentally over how _hard_ this was to say. "That I cared for. Fenris – never doubt that you are one of them. You mean very much to me."

Fenris did raise his head and look at him then, a long, searching look. A tenseness finally went out of him, and he managed at last to chew and swallow the bite of food in his mouth. "The old man... your master. He is one of the ones you care for."

"Very much," Zevran agreed, quietly, then reached over and took Fenris' hand in his. Fenris allowed it, though he tensed a little again. "Let me tell you a little about him. I want you to understand me a little better, and to do that, you must understand about my master and I," he said, and fell silent for a moment, frowning as he tried to organize his thoughts.

"We are bought at a very young age, we Crows; purchased like slaves, though the fiction is that we are merely indentured servants and can buy ourselves free some day. My master had seen me at one of the earliest, simplest sorts of training sessions we are given, and he saw... _something_... something in me that convinced him that this very small young elf might be worth training. And so when we were put up for the trainers to bid on, he purchased my indenture from the Guild, and took me to his training school. I was merely one among many then, small for my age, but agile and a reasonably good learner."

He paused, and frowned. "I must explain more. The trainers... they are like _gods_ to the young Crows they train. They have the power – the responsibility – to punish, even kill us, if we fail to meet the required standards in our training. Those that fail and survive their failure are not always killed, of course. In the earlier stages of training, it mostly means having our indenture sold off to some other occupation; the rug-makers always need more children with nimble fingers to knot the rugs, yes? And there are many jobs of that sort. Older ones who fail might be sold to be trained as servants, or as menial staff, or into the brothels, depending on their age and skills. Though eventually one reaches a level of training where failure is very dangerous. There _are_ varied levels of Crow, so a failure that is survived and is not too terrible a mistake is most likely to merely mean that you end up as one of the lower grades of Crows. But then there are the failures that will lead to death, even if you survive them."

He frowned. "Some masters chose to misuse this power of theirs over their apprentices. They are exceedingly harsh with them, sometimes even openly abusive of their power over them. They keep them in terror, kill them almost at random, so the young Crows learn obedience through fear, learn to apply themselves to their training because to not learn is to suffer and die. Some of them truly believe that such is the only way to properly raise a Crow, it having been how they themselves were raised," he explained. "My master was not such a one. He was harsh, yes, but only as much as was needful. He did not tolerate any abuse of us by the lesser training masters that worked in his school. When cruel things had to be done to us as part of our training, he always saw to it that such things were never any crueler than they had to be, that those who would have delighted in such cruelty were never allowed to be the ones performing such lessoning."

He paused again, then sighed. "In many ways, he was the closest thing I ever had to a father in my life. A stern father, yes, one whose approval was hard to win and rarely demonstrated. But I did win it, by my skill and my aptitude. And I came to love him... very much. I suppose that must sound very strange, especially if I tell you he once personally oversaw my torture, and that _that_ is when I finally fell in love with him. But you see, I had learned to trust him by then, and I trusted that he would do no more to me than was absolutely necessary for me to learn the lesson of how to resist torture, how to only reveal that which I wished to reveal, how to _survive_ it, mind still more-or-less intact."

Zevran smiled crookedly. "I was more than a little crazed at the time; a common problem with young Crows in that stage of their training. And in my madness, I fled the Crows."

That made Fenris give Zevran a startled look, and finally speak. "You ran away? And they did not kill you?"

"No. I was... ill, for a time. In my head. I remembered nothing, knew only that I was hurt and wanted to leave. And so I ran away, and ended up living among the Dalish for a while. It was a healing time for me. Then when I grew well enough to remember myself again, I returned to my master. He forgave me, eventually, knowing that I had been out of my head when I left, and after I had been through a period of punishment, I was allowed to resume my studies."

Zevran smiled then. "I think he was rather more put out by my eventually confessing my passion for him than by my running away. But I had learned by then to be very persistent, and I knew he cared for me as well, even if not perhaps in quite the same way, so I courted his attention. Eventually he gave in and agreed that he would bed me, if I first passed the rather difficult task of making my way into his bed alive. A master's apartment tends to be very well-guarded by traps and suchlike, you understand. It took me a very long time to pass his test, and I think he was almost as frustrated as I was by the time I finally managed it. And so we became lovers for a time after that, though he was still just as harsh with me in my training as was needful."

He paused and fell silent for a long time, lost in reminiscence, then sighed and looked at Fenris again. "It must sound very confusing; that he was my master, my god, my father, and my first love. What I want you to understand is that we still care for each other very much; even my leaving the Crows did not make him love me any the less, nor have any less pride in me. I am, he likes to tell me, the child of his heart. And I... I am his dog. If he wished to beat me, to kill me, I would let him do so, because he is still my master in my heart, even though I left his training many, many years ago and am no longer a Crow and no longer his to command. Yet I would still do anything he asked of me – _anything_. Because I know that if _he_ asked it, it would be something needful."

"You are right that it is confusing," Fenris said quietly. "My own master... was not one to inspire such loyalty, certainly nothing like the affection there seems to be between you and he. And I am not entirely sure why you want me to know all this about you."

Zevran sighed. "I cannot say I am entirely sure either. Except that I want you to understand me, and my past, and he is so much a part of my past that I would not be me if there had not been a him. I was clay, and he molded me. And to understand... that as much as I care for him... _you_ are the one I am with now."

He leaned over then, and kissed Fenris, not on the mouth, but on the corner of his jaw, just before his ear. Fenris gave him a sideways look afterwards, then smiled, just slightly, and reached over to take his hand. They sat there for a while together, in the warm sunlight, not speaking, then Fenris sighed. "We should head back. It's late; we'll have missed lunch by now," he said, and stood up.

"Sebastian and Anders will be worrying," Zevran agreed, and rose to his feet as well.

They whistled the horses back over, and set to putting their bridles, blankets and saddles back on, neither speaking as they did so. It was not until they had mounted and started back, riding along knee-to-knee again, that Fenris finally spoke. "I am glad you were able to see him again, for however short a time," he said quietly.

Zevran smiled sadly. "So am I, my friend,' he said, and then, after a short pause. "It is like when Soria left; I do not believe I will ever see him again, no more than her."

They rode back to the city in silence after that, both lost in thought.


	14. The Journey Begins

The two elves left Starkhaven with very little fanfare. They spent a final enjoyable evening dining with their friends at Anders' cottage, tucked safely in against the flank of Sebastian's castle in its surrounding gardens. The grounds were mostly well-manicured now, the result of Anders' untiring work on them. Though he had, he told them, decided to leave a small section of the grounds in much the same overgrown state it had been in when Sebastian had first installed him in the well-guarded outbuilding, doing only enough clearing to make sure there was nothing noxious growing there.

That drew a grin from Zevran. "There are advantages to having a safe little bit of wilderness, yes?" he asked. "One where you can be relatively sure that you will neither be seen, nor encounter anything that will scratch or itch?"

Sebastian turned deep red. Anders just laughed, and shook his head reprovingly at the elf, before changing the subject, asking Fenris how his plans for departure were going.

"Quite well, thank you. Everything is organized. We leave for my estate tomorrow. The first leg of the trip to there will of necessity be slow, but once we leave our extra baggage train behind there, we'll be moving quickly, and hopefully without anyone realizing that we're doing anything more interesting than visiting my estates a second time."

Anders and Sebastian nodded. It had been decided to try and keep the elves' departure as quiet as possible. They would initially set out for Fenris' estate, ostensibly taking more supplies and servants there with plans to stay for a week or more before returning to the capital. In reality they would only be stopping at the estate for long enough for Fenris to make arrangements about his planned stable and for the management of financial matters during his absence, and then he and Zevran would be continuing on south through the passes to Kirkwall to take ship from there to Ferelden at the best speed they could manage.

To aid in that, he was taking several horses to the estate, three of which actually were pregnant mares of good stock – all purchased from the royal stud farm – who should be delivering their foals the following spring and early summer, which would be the nucleus of his breeding herd. Two of them were not pregnant, but were instead good sturdy pack-horses to carry his and Zevran's gear while they travelled. over the mountains. The pack horses would likely be sold off in Kirkwall; their riding horses would go on to Ferelden with them.

"I walked back and forth across Ferelden in all seasons once already," Zevran had told Fenris. "I have little interest in doing it a second time when we have perfectly fine horses we can ride."

After the dinner had been talk, late into the evening, and then the pair of them had retired to Zevran's suite for the night – not that they had actually managed to get to sleep until well after midnight. They were up early the next morning to say a final short farewell to Sebastian and Anders in the stable-yard, from which they rode down into the city to the inn where Fenris had housed his new staff prior to the trip out to his estate. These included his new stable-master, a pair of stable-boys to be trained up as grooms, another housemaid, and an additional pair of guards and their wives, both men being older, married, and wanting to settle down and raise families.

There was a carriage for most of the staff to ride in, along with a trio of waggons loaded with additional supplies for the estate – things that could only be obtained easily in Starkhaven itself, mostly. Then there was the strings of oxen to pull them, and a small herd of horses – the mares, the pack horses, and some spare mounts for those who were riding, which included both guards, the new stable-master, and one of the boys who'd already had enough training as a stable boy and rode well enough that he could be of use in moving the livestock. Zevran and Fenris' off-mounts were kept on leading-reins from their own saddles, rather then putting them in with the general livestock; Aer and Tipo were well-used to travelling with Ari and Feo already, and there was no sense in putting them in with a group of strange horses for the comparatively short first leg of their journey as far as the estate.

They took their time travelling to Brynhir. As anxious as Zevran was now feeling to be off and head on to Ferelden at the best speed they could manage, haste would make it too easy for any watchers to guess that they might be headed further than Fenris' estate. So they dawdled, they stopped for lunches at inns rather than eating on the move, they stopped early for the night and took their time getting underway the next day; the perfect picture of people without any particular timetable to keep.

It took them four days to reach the estate. And then they lingered there for several days while Fenris toured the fields that had begun to be cleared, went and took another look at the proposed stable site with his new stable-master in attendance, visited is vineyards – twice – and saw the newly purchased horses settled into the small stables attached to the manor itself. The ox-drawn waggons departed back to the capital, with a load of wine and other products from the estate to sell. Fenris spent a day closeted with Ser Aylkeep, his steward, making sure that the man understood the arrangements to be followed in Fenris' absence – which was mainly to carry on as he was already doing, and seek direction from Sebastian in the event of there being something that Geoffrey could not settle himself.

And then, very early one morning, Fenris and Zevran simply departed in the pre-dawn darkness, leading their mounts and remounts and pack horses on foot until the sky grew light enough to swing up into their saddles and ride. They headed south-east, avoiding the main pass to the south-west in case it was indeed in the hands of the chantry already, and instead taking a minor, winding smuggler's path that curled back and forth among the foothills of the Vimmark mountains for some distance before finally climbing up and over a narrow pass high on the flank of one particularly massive mountain before winding back down again into the hills on the southern side of the range. From the height of the pass they had a distant, hazy view of the Waking Sea, Kirkwall visible as nothing more than a tiny area of smoke-smudged sky off to the west from them, and then they were back down among the crags and cliffs and winding pathways that snaked along sheer drop-offs. Not a route that saw much use, being suited only for traffic on foot or carried by mules or pack-horses, and not at all for waggon traffic.

Zevran was pleased when they finally reached the foothills and had some elbow-room again; an encounter with hostile forces on the narrow track would have been very difficult to handle. By the next day they reached the outskirts of territory familiar to Fenris – the Wounded Coast – and it was simply a matter of keeping up a steady pace toward Kirkwall while keeping an eye out for any of the dangers that typically lurked in that wild, largely barren tract. Apart from an encounter with giant spiders at one point of the afternoon, and then wasting an hour tracking one of the pack horses that had been spooked by same, and managed to break its lead rein and run, they saw nothing but sand, rocky outcrops, and the low hardy bushes that stubbornly clung to life in the otherwise desolate place.

They stopped for the night well-shy of Kirkwall itself, stopping to camp about an hour's easy ride, or a couple hours of steady walking away. It was better to approach the city early in the day, Zevran felt, as if Kirkwall _was_ currently occupied by chantry forces there would hopefully be some sign of it that they might spot before they'd stepped right in the wasp's nest.

"I could perhaps go ahead on foot tonight, and see what I can learn," Zevran suggested as they ate their cold supper, the two elves having decided against lighting a fire of any kind, no matter how well-sheltered.

"No," Fenris said immediately.

"But it would be safer," Zevran pointed out. "No one there knows me, and I would be able to determine how safe it was..."

"I will not be separated from you when we are in possible danger," Fenris told him, scowling. "You will not leave me behind with the horses. If you go into the city, so do I."

Zevran sighed. "And you are far too recognizable to make sneaking around very feasible, and if we both go in, we must take the horses with us or risk losing them to thieves or wildlife. All right, I will wait until tomorrow," he agreed.

Fenris was suspicious of his easy agreement, and when Zevran raised the question of who would be on the first watch that night, said it would be him. When he woke Zevran after midnight to take his own turn at watch, Fenris rather pointedly curled up against him, one arm draped over his legs.

"Do you not trust me?" Zevran asked.

Fenris smiled tiredly at him. "With my life. But not to not lie if there's something you think you should do that I don't agree with."

Zevran laughed, and gave in, settling down as comfortably as he could with the other elf holding onto him, to keep watch until morning.


	15. Arrival in Kirkwall

Kirkwall looked much as he remembered it, Fenris found himself thinking as they approached the city gates the next day. Squalid, and filthy from the smoke of the foundry district and countless fires for heating and cooking. There were changes, of course; the skyline of Hightown was different, missing the twin spires of the old chantry, though a single smaller tower currently wrapped in scaffolding and topped by a pair of large gantries was now rising in its place. Other signs of repair or reconstruction where still visible elsewhere too – patches of new bricks repairing damaged walls, a handful of new buildings replacing ones that had been destroyed by the fall of rubble after the chantry's destruction. But apart from that, little seemed changed.

The banners by the gate were new, not the sun-faded old banners that had been hanging there when he'd last seen it. But they still had the stylized dragon symbol of Kirkwall, not the sun-symbol of the chantry or the flaming sword of the templars, and the guards at the gate were dressed in the same ochre-trimmed dull grey armour as always; city guards, no foreign force. He felt a surge of relief; it seemed that Kirkwall was still a free city, and not under occupation by Orlesian or chantry forces.

A guard blocked their path as they approached, eyeing the pair of them warily. "I need to ask what your business is in Kirkwall, gentlemen," he said.

Zevran reined to a stop and smiled widely at him. "Normally I would say that my business is my own, but in fact I am here to speak with your commanding officer, among other things."

A second guard stepped forward, an openly suspicious look on his face. "Oh, you are, are you? And do you know who that is?"

Fenris kneed Ari closer. "Unless things have changed recently, it should be Donnic Hendyr," he said calmly. "Aveline's husband."

"_Viscount_ Aveline to you, elf," the second guard snapped.

Before he could say more, the first guard held up one hand, stopping him. "Wait, I recognize you – you're that elven warrior that was one of the Champion's companions, aren't you? Fergus? Fenders? Something likes that..."

"Fenris," a third guard said, stepping out of the nearby guardhouse, a smile on her face. "And both Captain Donnic and Viscount Aveline will be very happy to see him."

"Brennan!" Fenris exclaimed, and smiled warmly down at the guard. "You're looking well."

She grinned up at him. "So are you, Fenris. _Nice_ horses – don't see many of those around here. But then we're rather short on grazing land," she added, gesturing at the barren coastlands behind them, then looked enquiringly up at Fenris. "Heard you ended up in Starkhaven after leaving here?"

"Yes. I was there since last fall. We've just come from there," he added, gesturing to indicate both himself and Zevran. "We have messages for Viscount Aveline, among others."

Brennan nodded, giving Zevran a brief, curious look, then glanced at the other guards. "Let them on through – they're all right," she ordered, then looked back to Fenris. "You won't be able to take your horses beyond the caravansary; no livestock allowed in the city proper. There's stables around the inns catering to the merchant trade where you can board them while you're in Kirkwall."

Fenris nodded. "We'll do that," he agreed, and then after Brennan and the guards had moved back out of their path, he and Zevran continued on into Kirkwall.

The area nearest the gate was set up to handle merchants, anything from farmers bringing a single waggon-load of produce in to market right up to the big trading caravans that came through at intervals, following the coastal roads or coming down from the north through the passes through the Vimmark mountains. It took them some time to find an inn that met the standards of both of them – Zevran looking at how defensible he thought the building was, Fenris at the quality of their stables – that was also willing to accept elven customers. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the inn they finally settled on was one with a dwarven proprietor and the sigil of the merchant's guild prominently displayed; dwarves tended to take the eminently practical view that everyone's gold spent equally well, especially once it was in their own pockets. And they certainly built more than solidly enough to satisfy even Zevran's high standards; the inn was not a building whose windows or doors could be easily forced.

"Is Varric still head of the merchant's guild?" Fenris asked the innkeeper after they'd arranged for their room and stabling for their horses, nodding at the guild sigil on the wall near the counter.

The innkeeper nodded. "That he is, serah," he said agreeably. "Do you have business with him?"

Fenris smiled slightly. "Not quite. He still lives at the Hanged Man?"

The innkeeper frowned slightly, then took a closer look at Fenris, his eyes focusing in on the lines visible on Fenris' chin. He straightened, eyes widening slightly. "Yes, messere. Do you need word sent to him that you are here, or...?"

Fenris' smile broadened. "No, I can carry word myself, thank you."

"Shall we go and call on your friend first, then?" Zevran asked him.

"Yes. Unless he's changed his habits he's normally at home in the mornings and evenings," Fenris said, nodded farewell to the innkeeper.

Zevran stayed silent until they were outside, then grinned in amusement at Fenris. "You are a cunning man," he said quietly.

Fenris smiled slightly. "Varric always told me that I should feel free to drop his name in guild-run establishments; it makes sure I get treated honestly, if nothing else."

It was not a terribly long walk from the caravansary to the Hanged Man. Just long enough for Fenris to be reminded of the stinks of Kirkwall, and the rough hardness of the paving underfoot, dusty and with frequent areas of sharp-edged rubble. Not as bad as it had been the last time he'd walked these streets, liberally coated with chunks of rubble from the chantry's destruction, but still worse than it had been beforehand. He'd never regained as much callus as he'd had prior to running his feet raw between Ansburg and Starkhaven; the rubble was uncomfortable to step on. He hissed slightly as his foot came down on a particularly sharp piece, drawing a look from Zevran.

"There are advantages to boots," the other elf pointed out. "And you will need some if we do any travelling in Ferelden in winter."

"I've gone without in winter before," Fenris pointed out.

"In northern winters, yes. But they are a warm spring day compared to the bitter cold of Ferelden midwinter. I have seen days there so cold that when you spit, the spittle freezes to ice before it hits the ground."

Fenris gave Zevran a disbelieving look. "I cannot imagine it being so cold."

"Neither could I, until I was travelling in it. Believe me, you will want boots; good fur-lined ones."

They reached the Hanged Man then, ending the conversation. Corff was still standing behind the bar, same as he always had, and nodded to Fenris as if he'd last seen the elf only the day before, not over a year ago. "Your usual?" he asked.

"Not today. Is Varric in?"

"Upstairs," Corff said, nodding to the staircase at the back. Fenris thanked him, and led the way across the room and upstairs to the door to Varric's suite. The door was open, as it usually was when the dwarf was both home and in the mood to receive visitors. Fenris tapped on the door frame, then stepped inside.

Varric looked up from his seat at the far end of the long table that occupied a sizable chunk of his living space. He went very still for a moment, and then his face split in a very wide, welcoming grin. "As I live and breathe – never thought to see you here in these parts again, elf!" he exclaimed, dropping the quill pen he'd been using and rising to his feet. He gave Zevran a curious look. "And who's this? Wait, no – I know you. The assassin Hawke helped once, right?" he asked.

"You have an excellent memory," Zevran said, giving Varric a wide smile of his own before dipping in a n extravagant bow to him.

Varric smiled, and hurried around the table to where they stood, then grabbed Fenris and hugged him, startling the elf considerably. He stiffened for a moment, then awkwardly hugged Varric back, pleased at the warmth of his old friend's greeting.

"It's just not been the same around here since all of you left," Varric told him, grinning up at him, hands resting on his hips. "Are you back to stay?"

"No, just passing through I'm afraid; Zevran and I are on our way to visit Ferelden," he explained. "And we needed to stop here first, with messages for yourself and Aveline from Sebastian and Anders."

Varric frowned, tilting his head to one side slightly. "Still hard to believe that Blondie ended up in Starkhaven. You could have knocked me over with a feather after I heard from Aveline that he was there. You'll have to tell me the whole story," he added.

Fenris smiled. "I can try. But first I should send word to the keep to let Aveline know that we're here."

Varric nodded. "I'll send a runner; I can get a message directly to her, instead of you having to go through that damned Seneschal."

"Seneschal Bran is still working in the Keep then?"

"Yes. And I'll even go so far as to admit that he does a good job at keeping Aveline from being overwhelmed with minor nonsense from every self-important so-called noble in Hightown. Unfortunately he has his head firmly lodged up his arse when it comes to letting anyone he doesn't personally approve of speak to her. Thankfully she's a smart enough woman to have seen to it that a few trusted old friends have guaranteed access to her; I can send a message and he'll have no choice but to bring it directly to her, or face her wrath when she learns it's gone amiss."

He walked back to his seat, leaning on the table for a moment as he picked up the quill he'd been using, pulled an unused sheet of parchment out of a nearby stack, and quickly scrawled a message on it before folding it tightly and sealing it with a dribble of wax from a nearby candle. "I'll be right back," he said, and hurried out the door and downstairs. They could hear him calling an order for food and drink to Corff as he crossed the main room.

Varric was back before the food and drink arrived, looking pleased with himself. "Spotted a guard going off duty that I know; he'll make sure she gets it. She'll likely send a response within the hour. We can have lunch in the meantime and you can tell me all about what's been going on up in Starkhaven; all I've heard is rumours."

Nora arrived with drinks just then; a couple of bottles of Corff's best wine, and a pitcher of ale. By the time they'd settled down and poured out glasses of whatever they wanted to drink – ale for Varric, wine for the two elves – she was back carrying a large tray of finger-foods.

They spent an enjoyable lunch together, Fenris filling in Varric with at least an outline of events in Starkhaven since Sebastian's arrival there the year before, Varric occasionally exclaiming or asking questions, but mainly just listening intently.

It was over two hours after Varric had sent his message off, the table long-cleared apart from the tail end of the second bottle of wine, when there was a stir of voices downstairs, followed by the sound of armoured feet climbing the stairs. The figure that stepped in through the door a moment later was one well-known to Fenris. "Donnic!" he exclaimed, smiling and rising to his feet.

"Fenris," Donnic said, nodding to him in greeting, then turned to Varric. "Aveline asks you and your guests to dine with her at the Keep this evening," he said. "Private apartments. I'm to keep guard on the three of you until then, make sure there's no little accidents."

Zevran frowned. "Is there reason to believe that there would be a _little accident_, were you not guarding us?" he asked sharply.

Donnic turned and looked at him, then glanced questioningly at Fenris, answering only once Fenris had nodded to him. "There's a lot of lingering dislike for Hawke and his companions, not just from those who were already his enemies for one reason or another, and those aware of his relationship with the apostate who destroyed the chantry, but also from those who feel that he and his circle of friends pretty much deserted Kirkwall when the city needed him most, afterwards. There's a lot of bitterness from those that feel that he betrayed their trust in him as Champion of Kirkwall. And as Fenris was one of Hawke's more easily recognizable companions, some of those people might direct their ill will at him."

Zevran frowned and nodded, accepting the man's reasoning.

"Care to join us?" Varric asked Donnic, gesturing to an empty seat at the table.

Donnic sighed. "Tempting, but technically I'm on duty. Besides, Aveline would have my hide if I heard all the news from you before she did," he added, smiling warmly at Fenris. "I'll be with my men in the bar downstairs, keeping an eye on the door."

Varric nodded, and followed him out to order more drinks and snacks for himself and the two elves, since it was clearly going to be some time yet before they headed up to Hightown. They spent the next few hours being told by Varric about events in Kirkwall since Fenris' departure – much of which he'd already heard from Isabela and Knight-Commander Cullen during their visits to Starkhaven, and from the letters Sebastian had received from Aveline. Varric, however, was able to tell the stories in considerably more detail, including behind-the-scenes information about events over the past year in Kirkwall, and things that Aveline had not dared to commit to paper about Varric's brief abduction by the Seekers.

"So how is Aveline thought of as Viscount?" Fenris asked after Varric had wound down somewhat. "It sounds like she's doing a very good of it."

"That depends who you ask," Varric said, and shrugged. "If everyone liked her, she wouldn't be doing her job right, now would she? She's well enough liked among those who prefer law and order, and some degree of consistency in how the rules are applied. Disliked by those who feel the rules should never apply to _them_, of course; she can't be bribed or coerced, and has made it clear that nobility is no protection from punishment for crimes. She's smart enough to tolerate a certain amount of minor looking-the-other-way among the guards, but not anything too overt, or on anything important. Mostly she's liked or at least tolerated; she's a refreshing change from Viscount Dumar and that madwoman Meredith, anyway. You know where you stand with her, and the rules don't change from week to week. And she gets things done."

"And how is your writing doing without Hawke to make up stories about?" Fenris asked, smiling.

Varric grimaced. "Still looking for a new source of inspiration. Thought maybe I'd found one when Knight-Commander Cullen returned from wandering around the Free Marches, but the man can make high adventure sound dead boring, and seems even more committed to his vows of chastity than chantry-boy was, so there's not much to work with there," he said.

Zevran and Fenris exchanged a quick glance; one thing they had _not_ told Varric was about just how close a relationship had developed between Anders and Sebastian since the year before, though they had mentioned that Sebastian was no longer bound to the chantry in any way. The fewer people aware of that particular secret, the better. It was possible he already knew, of course – Isabela knew, after all, and might well have told him if she'd passed through Kirkwall again since leaving Starkhaven – but if he didn't know, they didn't intend to be the ones that mentioned it to him. The last thing Sebastian and Anders needed was Varric publishing stories about a fictionalized version of them.

Varric was nothing if not observant though; he'd caught the glance between the two of them and was now studying the pair of them, frowning slightly. "You know, I get the feeling there's a few things the pair of you aren't telling me," he said slowly. "The obvious one that springs to mind is just why you're travelling to Ferelden, Fenris... especially after you've just been made minor nobility in Starkhaven."

Fenris flushed, and glanced at Zevran again. Zevran reached out and took Fenris' hand in his. "Can't you guess?" the assassin asked with a rather toothy grin.

"Huh," Varric said, then smiled. "Intriguing."

"You understand that neither of us wish any particular publicity about the nature of our relationship, of course?" Zevran asked.

Varric sighed, looking almost disappointed for a moment. "I'm pretty sure I understand that I don't want a Crow – even an ex-Crow – angry at me, nor a warrior that I know is perfectly capable of ripping my heart out with his bare hands, so... yeah. No new writing material for me with you pair."

"Excellent," Zevran said, giving Varric a pleased grin.

There was the sound of armoured footsteps on the stairs, and Guard-Captain Donnic came into Varric's suite again. "We should get underway soon," he said. "If you're all ready?"

There being nothing more any of them needed than to rise to their feet, they were soon underway to Hightown for their private audience and dinner with Viscount Aveline.


	16. Dinner with The Viscount

Supper with Aveline was an informal affair, held in a small dining room in her and Donnic's private apartments in the keep, not in the larger formal dining room for state occasions. Donnic saw them to the room, and offered them all wine, then disappeared off to remove his mail. He returned a short while later with Aveline on his arm, both of them dressed in matching outfits, her in a dress and he in a tunic and leggings, in a mix of dark sage-green and rusty orange-red fabric trimmed with cream and gold. Aveline was carrying an infant baby in her arms; their son, Roland Wesley Hendyr.

That, of course, required them all to stop and take a few minutes to admire the boy. It looked like his hair was going to be his father's brown, while his eye colour was still indeterminate, still changing from the dark blue of birth to their adult shade. He had his mother's fair skin, and a few tiny freckles on his nose. Fenris declined to hold him; Zevran picked him up from Aveline's arms with perfect aplomb, carefully supporting the baby's head while he held him more-or-less upright and made faces and silly sounds at the boy, drawing a delighted toothless grin of approval from Roland, before handing him off to Varric, who Roland clearly recognized and made delighted noises at as Varric dandled him and blew raspberries on his tummy before finally handing him back to Aveline.

Aveline put him down in a small crib nearby, and they took their places at the table. Servants came in, carrying well-laden plates of food, a pitcher of ale and a sizable decanter of wine, and disappeared again as soon as everyone had been served.

They talked during the meal, Fenris bringing Aveline and Donnic up to speed on recent events in Starkhaven, with occasional interjections from Zevran. It took until well after the meal was done for him to tell them everything; they'd moved to the more comfortable seating in Aveline's study before he was finished. Zevran produced copies of relevant documents from one of his belt pouches, turning them over to Donnic since Aveline was nursing Roland by then.

"We've had some problems with the Seekers and Orlesian Templars here as well, as I wrote to Sebastian about, and as I'm sure Varric has already told you about in more detail," Aveline said, tilting her head toward the dwarf, who nodded in acknowledgement. "But nothing as bad as what this sounds like," she added, tapping one finger against the stack of papers.

"It makes me as Guard-Captain very glad that you decided against re-establishing the Circle of Kirkwall anywhere within the city limits," Donnic said very soberly.

Aveline nodded. "As much as I may trust Knight-Commander Cullen and his men, I'd rather not have any significant armed forces in the city whose allegiance is not to the city-state itself, and to me as its acknowledged head. We've already seen what misuse of the templars can lead to, with Meredith reigning in all but name as Kirkwall's head of state, for all she permitted Dumar to wear the crown and hold the title. Besides, as thin as the veil is here, it appears criminally negligent for mages to be kept anywhere nearby. The new circle has been established in a fortified tower a good day's ride north of here, in the foothills of the Vimmark Mountains. There _is_ a small force of templars here, to guard against blood mages, and to watch for apostates and encourage them to either move on or move to the Circle, but that is all I've permitted."

"And the Gallows?" Fenris asked curiously. "What has been done with that?"

"It belongs to the city. It's being used as a quarantine point still, as well as additional guard barracks, a jail, and housing for the templars. We've also seen to the refurbishment of the guard posts along the neck, and only permit a small number of foreign-owned vessels to enter the harbour at only one time; that served us well back in the spring when a small fleet of Orlesian ships tried to put in. We raised the chains, and told them they would only be allowed to enter one at a time, and would only be permitted to dock at the Gallows to take on fresh water and supplies. They hung around for half a day, and then changed their minds and went elsewhere."

"I wonder if that fleet might have been carrying the templars who later reinforced Tantervale," Zevran speculated.

"It may well have been; it was certainly long enough ago that they could have landed elsewhere along the coast and gone north over one of the passes. Unfortunately our forces are still too low to maintain an adequate watch over any but the closest lands to the city, and the most commonly-travelled trade routes. Anything beyond that..." Aveline shrugged, indicating how impossible it was to monitor all of the lands associated with the city-state.

That led into a discussion of coastal defences, with Zevran talking about and comparing the methods used in Antiva and Ferelden, and Fenris mentioning what he could remember of the same from Seheron and Tevinter. Most involved watchtower, fortified outposts, patrols, or some combination of them all.

Of course, with the Kirkwall harbour being the only break in a very lengthy run of sheer cliffs along the coast, there was little need for much in the way of defences; the land largely provided its own. Only a handful of widely-spaced watchtowers along the clifftop was needed to keep an eye on the coast for leagues in either direction, and those, too, were being refurbished – or reconstructed entirely in some places – by Aveline's orders.

"Once we have enough guards to man them, I also plan to have fortified outposts set up, strong enough to help slow down any forces that might try to land beyond the cliffs and march on the city overland," she explained. "Though that's of necessity a more long-term plan; for now I'm concentrating on strengthening the defences of the city itself. Frankly, they've been allowed to go to pot under the last few rulers. Undermanned, improperly maintained..." She frowned and shook her head. "At least I have good contacts for dwarven stonemasons to come and work on repairing them."

Varric grinned and lifted his mug of ale at that, making it clear just who Aveline's main "good contact" was. That turned the conversation to talk of trade; a matter of interest mainly to Aveline, Varric, and Zevran, though Fenris found himself far more interested in the topic than he'd been before he became a noble with an estate and products of his own to market. Varric was particularly interested when he learned that Fenris' estate produced fine wines, including the highly prized (and correspondingly highly priced) Winter Wine. Had it not been a social occasion he might have tried to talk Fenris into a contract for some amount of it right then and there, so great was his interest.

Eventually they returned to more serious conversation. "So the two of you are continuing on to Ferelden?" Aveline asked.

"Yes," Zevran said. "As a Bann of Ferelden, and as a personal friend of King Alistair, I owe it to him to bring him word of events in the north, and do what I can to help my adopted country to ready itself for any potential Orlesian move. They still, even to this day, consider Ferelden to be little more than a rebellious province of their own territory, ignoring that it has been a sovereign nation for all but a relatively brief period. But then Orlais has always had ambitions far beyond its borders."

Aveline nodded. "As the Free Marches has learned to their detriment in the past. And I, too, will do my best to ready and protect my adopted country," she said firmly.

"There's no ship in port right now that's destined for Ferelden," Varric said thoughtfully, scratching at his chin. "Nothing due in for two or three days."

"We will need a ship large enough to take horses," Fenris told him.

"Horses? How many?"

"At least four, preferably six so we can take along our pack horses as well as our riding ones," Zevran spoke up. "Horses are a rare commodity in Ferelden, and I have doubts we could easily replace them there."

"Hrmm... you may have a longer wait then. The next ship due in that'll be headed for Ferelden after stopping here is just a small one. It may be a week or two until a large enough vessel puts in, unless we get something unscheduled. Or you're willing to pay enough to persuade someone to travel there, and even then..." Varric paused and looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head. "No. The only one currently in port that's big enough to take even four horses, he doesn't like open water; only does coastal runs. I don't think you could offer him enough to cross over directly instead of working all the way west and back east again, and I very much doubt you want to go west."

"That would be a correct deduction," Zevran agreed, a slight smile on his face, then glanced at Fenris. "Then we have to wait."

Donnic was frowning now. "I dislike the idea of the pair of you loose in the city," he said. "I know you can take care of yourself, but as I explained earlier, feelings are still running high against Hawke, and Fenris could attract some of the wrong sort of attention."

Aveline nodded slowly. "I agree. Perhaps we could put you both up here in the Keep; you are technically foreign dignitaries, after all."

Zevran and Fenris exchanged a look.

"I think we would prefer less ostentatious quarters," Zevran said guardedly. "Not that we do not appreciate the offer, of course, but we would be very noticeable here. Also there are far more people in and out of here each day than I am comfortable with. I am reasonably certain that the lodgings we took down in the caravansary area are solid enough to resist mot casual efforts at intrusion, and I believe Fenris and I could repel most more serious ones as well."

"Which inn did you take rooms at?" Varric asked, and smiled when Fenris told him. "One of mine; I have a part-ownership in the place. It's good solid dwarven construction, Donnic, it's take a small army to break in."

"That still leaves the question of their safety if they go wandering around the city," Donnic said stubbornly.

Zevran smiled. "I doubt we will roam much. Apart from bringing work fro Starkhaven to you, we have little to do in Kirkwall save wait for a ship, and then we will be gone. Neither Fenris nor I have any desire to loiter around the streets. Surely us remaining quietly in our room at the inn will not attract nearly as much attention to us as if we were publicly visible here for days on end."

Donnic grudgingly admitted that Zevran was probably right, though he also made it clear that he intended to increase guard presence in the area, just in case.

That Zevran was willing to live with, and Fenris had no particular objections to either. It being late by then, the group said their good-bye and the elves and Varric headed back down to Lowtown together.


	17. Setting Sail

Fenris sighed, and rolled over on his side, glancing towards the small window nearby. Mid-day now, by the angle of the sun. He lay there, listening to the sounds of the caravansary market drifting in, and wishing he could go out for a while, but knowing it would not be a wise idea.

He and Zevran had been here a little over a week now, and apart from a second escorted visit to the Viscount's keep and a single un-escorted trip outside that had convinced him that Donnic was correct about Kirkwall being less than friendly to Hawke's ex-companions, he had spent the entire time in their room at the inn. Zevran, not suffering from the same infamy as he did, was free to come and go as he pleased. It was a freedom Fenris was envying more and more as the days went by, with him effectively trapped in their room an unable to go out. True, he'd never particularly liked Kirkwall, really, but being here and not being able to even just walk to the market and buy himself a treat was... disturbing. He also wished he could go and see if any of the few people he'd known and liked – apart from his friendships within Hawke's group of companions – had survived the turmoil of those final days here. Even people he hadn't particularly been friends with, but had merely known because of knowing Hawke, like Lady Elegant and Tomwise... what had happened to them all, he wondered.

Fenris rolled over again, and sighed. And wished they had a larger room; there wasn't even enough room for him to do something _useful_ with all this spare time, such as practising his forms. There was nothing at all for him to do. He found himself wishing he had a book to puzzle his way through, or even some paper and a pen to practise his writing. That brought a smile to his lips, remembering lessons with Anders in the mage's prison-slash-cottage, the deerhound nosing under his arm to see what he was so intent upon, while Anders sat at his desk and wrote or drew pictures, his cat purring contentment somewhere nearby. For a moment he yearned to be back in Starkhaven, with Sebastian and, yes, with Anders... his friends.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a key scraping in the locked door. He sat up, tense and wishing he was dressed in more than a fold of sheet, and then Zevran slipped into the room and he relaxed again. The assassin looked like he had something to say, but he still paused to give Fenris an appreciative look. "I like that look on you," he said, and grinned widely. "And I truly wish I had time to crawl back into bed with you and show you just how much. Unfortunately we need to pack and leave right away. I have found us a boat."

"A ship? Already?"

"Yes. An uscheduled arrival – it docked just before noon and will be leaving in just a few hours, bound for Amaranthine and then Denerim. I've arranged our passage already; Varric is seeing that our horses get down to the docks and is sending some trustworthy porters to carry our gear to the docks, and you and I need to pack and get down there as well. Donnic is coming to escort us and see us off. Hurry now... up, up, up!" he said, waving his hands at Fenris in a 'get moving' gesture, before turning away and beginning to gather up the few odds and ends of his belongings that were out, neatly putting them away in his pack.

Fenris hurriedly rose, and gave himself a fast sponge-bath at the washstand, wishing as he did that he'd had more warning and had the time for a real bath before they left. Dwarven plumbing was something he had come to appreciate very much, since its presence and use had become a regular part of his life after arriving in Starkhaven. He had a sneaking suspicion that their visit to Ferelden would mark a return to hasty baths in small tubs with laboriously heated buckets of water at best, and was more likely to be further sponge-baths. It took very little time for him to dress and pack; he, like Zevran, had kept most of his belongings in his packs rather than leaving them out. Only a few things – toiletries mostly – needed to be gathered up and put away.

The two elves went downstairs and found Donnic already there waiting for them, along with a three-man patrol standing outside the inn, and several dwarves standing around waiting to help carry all their packs and bags. Zevran had already settled their bill before coming up to roust Fenris, so they needed do nothing more than send the dwarves upstairs to fetch their packs, then walk out the door and set off for the docks. Fenris was glad of Donnic's escort; not just because it meant they drew nothing worse than some hard looks and muttered comments along the way, but also because it gave him a chance to have a parting conversation with the man, as well as asking him to pass on his farewells to Aveline. The walk went uneventfully, thankfully, and they were soon hurry down the last set of stairs to the docks.

"The boat is this way," Zevran said, gesturing off to their right.

"They're called ships," Fenris pointed out.

Zevran made a face. "Ships, boats... does it matter what I call them?"

"It can matter quite a lot," Fenris said. "Especially if you try to make a voyage in the wrong type. Considering you grew up in a port city I am surprised how little you know of them."

:I trained as an assassin, not a sailor. And I've never much cared for going to sea; nowhere to run, if you discover you need to."

"You should still pay attention to the difference. Someone like Isabela would be inclined to throw you overboard if you used the wrong term."

Zevran grinned. "Funny you should mention her as an example," he said, then tilted his head to indicate a docked ship just coming into view as they rounded a waterfront warehouse.

Fenris stopped in his tracks for a moment, a delighted smile crossing his face. He knew that ship – he'd sailed in her for several months, before deciding that life at sea was not for him. He resumed walking, at a very fast pace, searching the deck... there, near the gangplank, her back to them and hands resting on hips while she looked down at something.

"Isabela!" he called as soon as they were close enough to be heard, raising and waving one hand when she turned to see. She smiled broadly, and walked over to the railing. "Hello, boys!" she called down to them.

"Permission to come aboard," Zevran called out, grinning up at her.

"You can board my ship any day," she told him with a wink, then smiled at Fenris. "And you, too."

Zevran went up the gangplank in two long strides, giving Isabela a very warm hug. Fenris followed him at a more decorous pace, and was pleased when Isabela turned from Zevran and gave him a hug as well.

"I'm surprised," he said. "And very pleased to see you."

"I'm pleased to see you too, sweetness," she said, smiling warmly at them, then turned to Donnic, who'd followed them up. "I'd hug you too, but I'd prefer to remain on cordial relations with the Viscount," she said, grinning widely.

Donnic smiled warmly at her. "I'm fairly certain Aveline wouldn't mind, as long as you gave me a hug for her too," he said.

"Oh, well in _that_ case," Isabela said, and hugged him twice. "How's little Roland?"

"Growing like a weed. You'll have to come for dinner the next time you're in Kirkwall long enough to do so."

"I will," she assured him. "Tell Aveline I said hello. I should be back this way in a couple of weeks – hopefully for a longer stay."

Donnic nodded, made his farewell to the three of them, then returned to the docks, gathering up his group of guards and leading them off. The dwarven porters carrying Zevran and Fenris' belongings had arrived now as well, and were setting down their loads at the foot of the gangplank. Isabela called for several of her crew to gather the gear and take it below, while Zevran hurried back down to the dock to thank and pay the men.

Fenris, meanwhile, had spotted what Isabela had been looking at – the hatch of the cargo hold was open, and he could see their horses down below, standing in rough stalls. The horses were all hobbled and blindfolded. "How did you get them aboard?" he asked curiously – surely they hadn't walked them up the gangplank.

"Cargo winch and a sling," she said, gesturing at a nearby gantry. "You're lucky that you're good friends of mine; I'm not usually willing to take on livestock. Stinks up the place."

"Can I go below and see them?" he asked, seeing how Ari had his head lifted, ears swivelling in the direction of his voice.

"Sure, though I'd recommend you leave them blindfolded for now... let us get out to sea and them get settled down first."

Fenris nodded, then dropped down into the hold, into the narrow aisle between the two rows of stalls. The horses snorted at the sound, but calmed as soon as he spoke, recognizing his voice. He slipped into Ari's stall first, running one hand along the horse's withers while reaching forward with the other so Ari could sniff at it. The stallion lipped at his hand, then dropped its head to nose at the hay heaped around its feet. Fenris gave the horse a pat on the shoulder, then moved on to check on Aer, followed by Zevran's pair and their pack-horses. He left the hold by the door at one end of it, making his way back up on deck.

Zevran and Isabela were leaning against the rail on the raised stern, Zevran looking toward Kirkwall, hands on the railing, while Isabela stood with her back to it and her arms crossed. She smiled when she saw Fenris walking towards them. "Satisfied with the condition of your horses?" she asked.

"Yes, very," he told her, then frowned slightly. "Will they be all right down there during the crossing?"

Isabela nodded. "Unless we have very rough weather, and it's the wrong season for that. It's a short crossing from here to Amaranthine, and then just another half day along the coast to drop the two of you off at Blackmarsh. You're sure you wouldn't rather be dropped off directly in Denerim?"

Zevran made a face. "I would prefer to enter the country discretely, and there are some things there I would like to pick up. And it has been too long since I was last back home, so I will need to spend a day or two at my manor in any case. Best to get that taken care of first."

Isabela nodded. "All right then. We should be there in three days," she said, then turned and looked off down the neck toward the open sea. "We'll be setting out shortly. Zevran, try to stay out from underfoot while we're setting sail; either find a spot out of the way, or go stay in your cabin until we're out at sea."

Zevran looked from her to Fenris. "And Fenris?"

"_He _has actually worked on my ship before, and knows what he's doing and when to get out of the way," she told Zevran. "He'll actually be of use to me. Unlike you."

Zevran sighed dramatically. "So I am to be little more than cargo on this trip. How sad."

Fenris smiled. "I'd better change if I'm to work the crossing," he said.

"Well, you don't _have_ to," Isabela said, smiling. "But you're certainly welcome to do so."

"I'd like to," he said, then turned to Zevran. "Come. I'll show you where our cabin is," he said, then turned away, leading the way down from the raised stern and below-decks to their cabin, one of a pair of tiny passenger rooms adjacent to Isabela's rather larger quarters. Their cabin was small, just big enough for a couple of hammocks strung at angles one-above-the-other, their pile of packs, saddlebags and tack taking up most of the floor space underneath the hammocks. Zevran made a face as he looked around. "Not exactly spacious quarters," he said.

Fenris shrugged. "This is a privateer," he pointed out. "It's more set up for fighting and carrying cargo than passengers. Anyway, it's only two days," he added, then turned and frowned thoughtfully at their pile of luggage. There was a knock on the door, and he turned back to open it, smiling when he saw one of Isabela's crew-members standing there, one of several he'd befriended during his brief stint on her crew. "Hello, Mikel," he said, smiling warmly at the man.

"Hey, t'captain said yeh'd be needing these," the sailor said, holding out a pair of canvas shorts and a length of rope. "Still got yer knife, Lines?"

"No, I lost it while travelling."

Mikel nodded. "I'll find yeh nudder one then. See yeh up on deck," he said, and hurried off.

Fenris closed the door again, and began stripping off his armour, a chore made difficult by the limited amount of space. Zevran looked around, then sighed and climbed into the lower hammock – with the ease of one who'd slept in them before, Fenris was relieved to see – and settled back, watching Fenris strip down. "Not that I'm complaining about the show," Zevran said, giving Fenris a particularly lecherous look as the warrior skinned out of his jacket and leggings and tossed them onto the upper hammock. "But I do find myself regretting that it's not going to lead to you joining me in this hammock."

Fenris snorted, then pulled on the knee-length shorts. The waist was a bit loose, but the rope belt solved that problem.

"Mmmm, I like that look on you," Zevran said, wiggling his eyebrows. "I liked it even better off of you."

Fenris snorted again, then leaned down to kiss the other elf. "I have work to do," he said. "Do you want to come up on deck, or would you rather stay down here?"

"On deck, I think," said Zevran, quickly rolling back out of the hammock. "Tell me where I can be out of the way."

Fenris nodded, and led the way back up to the deck, pointing out a spot beside the steps up to the stern where Zevran could stand and see most of the ship, but not be underfoot, then turned away and looked around for Mikel.

The man was just emerging from the passage that led down to the crew quarters in the bow. He waved at Fenris, holding up a sheathed knife in his other hand, then tossed it the length of the deck to him. Fenris easily caught it and fastened it to one of his belt loops, checking that the ties that kept the knife from falling out of the sheath were properly knotted, then swarmed up the shrouds. He grinned as crew members both above and below called out greetings to him, and called back acknowledgement to them.

It was good to be back on Isabela's ship, however briefly. He'd enjoyed his few months as a member of her crew; not enough to want to make a life out of it, in the end, but enough to be glad to see the men and women again, to rejoin them however temporarily. He didn't stand out among them as badly as he did among a shore-side population; many of them were heavily tattooed, or scarred, or both. His white lines were unusual, but no more so than the brightly coloured tattoos that covered most of Mikel's body, or the raised patterns of scarification that marked the skin and face of Little Bet. And with many of them coming from backgrounds as bad or worse than his, it was an unspoken rule among them not to pry into anyone's background; if someone wished to speak of their past, fine, but you did not ask. It had been refreshing to spend time among them, accepted as one of them.

He was, he realized, looking forward to their voyage together very much. And even regretting that it would only last for three days.

* * *

Zevran leaned back against the wall beside the ladder, arms folded across his chest, watching Fenris clambering about in the rigging, helping to prepare the ship for sailing. The warrior had a wide grin on his face, and was calling back and forth to the other crew members, answering to the nickname "Lines". Clearly he was among friends here, more so than Zevran was, who knew only Isabela. It was interesting to see Fenris in an environment where he clearly felt comfortable; even back in Starkhaven, and certainly at his own manor house, there'd been a subtle tenseness to him. Times when he truly relaxed were rare; times when he was truly relaxed among so many others? Zevran wouldn't have believed it if he wasn't seeing it.

"He looks good in sailor's shorts and nothing else, doesn't he?" Isabela asked from overhead.

Zevran craned his head around to look up at where she was standing at the railing edging the stern. "He looks even better without them," he said, more than a little smugly.

She grinned. "A sight I would love to see," she said, then sighed. "Sadly he's one of the few men I've ever met who finds me completely resistable."

Zevran smirked. "Perhaps that might change now that he is has learned the pleasurable side of being bedded."

"Oh?" she said interestedly, and watched Fenris intently for a moment, then sighed. "If you two were making a longer voyage with me, I'd be tempted to test his resolve."

"Are you saying three days would not be enough time for you to seduce him?"

"No, I'm saying three days wouldn't be nearly enough time to enjoy it if I finally succeeded," she said, gave him a wink, and turned away to go take the wheel and set sail.

Zevran grinned, and returned to watching Fenris.


	18. Arrival In Blackmarsh

They made better time going east than Isabela had expected; they reached Amaranthine early enough on the second day to offload cargo and set sail again by evening. By the time the sun rose the next morning, they were off the coast of Blackmarsh, the distant heights of the Aralt Ridge just barely visible beyond the marshes and fens.

Zevran stood at the rail, a smile on his face as he looked over his lands. He could have wished for a place that was warmer and dryer, though situated on the north coast of Ferelden along the Amaranthine Ocean as it was, it at least technically _was_ warmer than much of the country. Though certainly not dryer; the Aralt Ridge was just high enough to encourage clouds to form and rain to fall on their western slopes, rather than on the eastern side as would have happened if they were taller yet; instead of acting to create a rain shadow, they generated rain, making his lands very well-watered indeed. From the foothills of the ridge to the northwestern shore was a vast maze of wetlands, laced with countless streams and ponds. Most of the waterways drained directly to the ocean, but partway along the shore there was an area of dryer land where a small river wound its way between outcroppings of the underlying rock, widening into a silty estuary before draining out to sea. Blackmarsh village lay on the western shore of the estuary, tucked up against the foot of an outcropping that lay between it and the ocean.

It was almost the only habitation in his bannorn apart from a few lone trappers and gatherers living in huts out in the fens and marshes. There was also a stone quarry at the southwestern end of the ridge, close to Denerim, that he'd hired workers to settle near and reopen. One of his more profitable ventures, actually, with all the rebuilding and new building that had been going on in the city since the Blight Year. Though it was the varied wildlife in the marshes that was his main source of income; both the plants that grew there and the animals that either lived there or migrated through in their proper seasons. His people dug peat, cut thatching reeds, gathered herbs and other edibles, as well as shellfish from the shores, and did both freshwater and saltwater fishing. Not to mention the numerous ducks, geese, and other waterfowl they raised or caught for the Denerim and Amaranthine markets, usually equally as valuable for their feathers as their meat.

It was a good land, for all that it rather damper than he preferred, and he liked the people he ruled. Soria and Alistair had chosen well in giving him the Blackmarsh and its population of independent loners rather than some more staid establishment; it needed only a very light hand and occasional visit to manage them. They appreciated him staying largely out of their business, and as long as he received his small share of their goods – including an occasional keg of good brandy from the smugglers that worked out of the marsh – he left them to it.

Fenris dropped down to the deck nearby and walked over to join him at the railing. "How much further is it?"

"Not far. See that rise off to the east? With the tower on it? The harbour and village are just the other side of it. At this speed we will be there in less than an hour."

"I'd best go change, then," Fenris said, sounding regretful.

Zevran smiled. He couldn't help but notice how much the other elf had enjoyed their brief journey on Isabela's ship, how happy he'd been to renew acquaintance with her crew. "Do you ever regret that you didn't remain with Isabela?" he asked curiously.

"Not really," Fenris said, eyes watching the passing shore. "I enjoyed my time as her crew member, and this chance to relive the experience... but if I hadn't gone to Starkhaven, then Sebastian would likely be dead. And I'd never have become friends with Anders. Nor likely met you," he added, giving Zevran a sidelong look.

Zevran smiled, and shifted position enough to lean against him for a moment. "Then I'm glad you didn't remain a sailor," he said.

Fenris smirked, then straightened up. "I'd better go change," he repeated, and left.

They rounded the outcrop and sailed into the harbour within the hour, as Zevran had predicted. He looked around, remembering what a mess of a place it had been when he'd first seen it; the ruined village, the dilapidated docks, the harbour choked with silt and a couple of totting old wrecks. The only marginally habitable places had been the old manor house and an ancient stone keep built into the hillside overlooking the town.

It looked nothing like that now; the wrecks had been removed, the harbour dredged, the remains of the original town torn down. He'd salvaged what usable brick and stone he could from the ruins, and had the rubble used to fill in areas where the ground had subsided below water level. He'd kept and repaired the old manor, which now served as both the town hall and a warehouse. The stone keep dug into the hillside had been expanded to become his manor house, a sizable addition being built over top of it around the ancient courtyard higher up the hill.

Rubble from clearing the stone outcrops and old broken walls that had edged the courtyard and the staircase up to the top of the hill had been used to fill in more of the ponds that had encroached on the old village lands, while stone blocks cut from those same outcrops had been used to build piers that sat on the bedrock underlying the swamp here. A new village had been built, raised several feet off of the ground on pilings that used the stone piers for their footings; good, solidly built homes that were protected from the damp underfoot and from any seasonal flooding that might occur. The docks had been rebuilt as well, also on stone footings. It was a real town again, a small but busy fishing port from which his people were able to ship goods by sea to both Denerim and Amaranthine, sometimes even further afield if a merchant put in looking for their wares. Life, where before there had been nothing but a waste.

It was, he sometimes thought, his finest accomplishment.

He called out to the harbourmaster as the ship approached by the docks, and within minutes of tying up there were already villagers streaming down to the docks to greet him, to work the gantry to unload his and Fenris' horses, to carry their belongings up the hill to the manor. He could not stop smiling as he exchanged greetings with his people, every one of whom he knew by name. A small village, insular, not welcoming to strangers, but _his_.

It took almost an hour to go the short distance from the docks to his house; there were orders to give to see certain under-the-counter goods retrieved from hiding and loaded onto Isabela's ship, and her to say good-bye to before he and Fenris could leave the docks. Then people to stop and talk with all the way through the small village, from a little girl wanting to show him the very impressive scab on her knee to a group of trappers with a dispute about their areas, whom he told to come see him the next day, when he would hold an open court to deal with local issues. He and Fenris saw their horses safely stabled in the small inn by the town gate. From there they left behind the crowd, walking up the path to the keep together. They stopped partway up, where a small stone terrace – once site of one of the outcrops that had previously lined the path up – gave them a view out over the town and harbour.

"It's very nice," Fenris said. "Small, but very friendly."

Zevran grinned. "Not quite so friendly to strangers; but you are with me so my people know you are okay. We had problems with a Crow group only once here; my villagers have become very suspicious of unknown faces ever since."

Fenris nodded, and the two continued further up the hill, passing a small stout door that Zevran explained let into the lower, older parts of the building – now the domain of his servants and guards – and up to a large archway at the top of the hill that led into a surprisingly large courtyard with a pattern of circles inlaid in its stone surface.

"The Hero of Ferelden killed a dragon here once; a ghost of one, anyway," Zevran said. "Though it left behind a surprisingly solid body; rock crystal of some kind. I still have the skull of it, though Soria claimed the rest."

He turned and smiled at his house, which from here, where only the addition was visible, appeared to be a squarish two-story building with short one-story wings branching off each of the two closest walls, walling in the eastern and southern sides of the courtyard, the remaining two sides being cut into the steep hillside behind. At the very top of the hill could be seen the same watchtower that they'd seen from out at sea just a couple of hours before; from that height there was a good view over much of his bannorn, as well as for miles out to sea. As long as it was properly manned, it would be very difficult for anyone to approach the town without being seen, unless there was mist or fog obscuring the view. Which in some seasons was all-too-common, but the tower still provided at least some extra warning of arrivals more often than not.

The entrance onto the courtyard was a sizable door of beautifully carved wood set in a frame of warm golden sandstone which he'd had imported all the way from Antiva, a little touch of home. The remainder of the building was built out of the local grey stone, with blue slate roofs and many windows. The ones facing onto the courtyard were small and cut up by pillars or bars into openings too small for anyone to gain entry by; the windows on the side overlooking the stairway up, which were a good three to four stories above ground, were much more sizable, giving wonderful views out over the town and estuary below, and the ridge-backed marshes beyond.

"Welcome to Blackmarsh Manor," he told Fenris as he walked over and opened the door, gesturing for the other elf to proceed him inside. "My home," he added with more than a little pride.

* * *

Fenris looked around with interest as he stepped into the front hall. It was small, but rose a full two stories in height, the floor set with black and white marble tiles in a checkerboard pattern, with a more intricate border of black and white mosaic around the edges of the room, the walls panelled in polished wood. A staircase curved up to their right, leading up to the balcony that ringed the second floor level of the space. Several doorways and open arches led off of the entry, including one directly opposite the entrance doors that opened into what was clearly a sizable hall, its far wall lined with large windows that faced out over the town.

"This way," Zevran said, and led the way up the stairs, then along the balcony to a door that led into the rooms at the northeast corner of the top floor; by the size and decor of the suite, they were clearly Zevran's own. There were many windows – all too small for easy entrance – and a large fireplace with wood laid ready to light on the grate within. There was also a huge four-poster bed of dark wood with cream-coloured hangings and bedding, as well as several other pieces of furniture – an armoire, a chest of drawers and so forth – in the same dark wood. Their packs and bags had all been brought up, and stood in a neat pile in one corner of the room.

"We'll be here at least two or three days while I take care of business," Zevran said. "Make yourself at home. Would you prefer a quiet meal up here, or to eat downstairs?"

"A quiet meal," Fenris said.

"Very good. I will be right back... why don't you start the tub filling for the two of us?" Zevran suggested, grinning, and then turned and hurried off.

Fenris looked around. An open door led to an adjacent bathing chamber, and Fenris smiled as he saw that Zevran had clearly spared no expense when it came to the hiring of dwarven builders to plumb his manor. A tub big enough for two took up a considerable part of the floor space. There was also a sink, rather than a washstand, and some sort of large metal disk perforated with a lot of small holes protruding out of the wall in a tiled corner of the room. A second door at the far corner led into a closet-like space with a well-sealed earth-closet in one corner.

He started the water running – it would take some time for that large a tub to fill – and then went and dug out the packs that contained his clothing. Two or three days... there'd be time to have a laundry done. He sorted through the clothing, picking out a clean outfit to change into, and looked around for some place to hang it, in the hopes the worst of the wrinkles would smooth themselves up.

Zevran returned just then. "Looking for someplace to put your clothes?" he asked, as he began opening and dumping his own clothing from his packs. "Don't bother, I've told the maid to come take everything away for cleaning; just take out everything and leave it in a pile for now. Clean or not, it could all use a washing and a proper ironing, I am sure. Since we're staying in, we don't need anything more than a robe to wear. And I have a robe you can borrow, before you point out that you didn't bring along any such thing," he added, and walked over to the armoire, flinging the doors wide and quickly sorting through the rainbow array of clothing within.

He picked out two robes of some satiny fabric, in two different shades of green, tossing them onto the bed. before he started stripping down. Fenris followed his lead, a little more slowly. Once they were both naked Zevran picked up the robes again, carrying them into the bathing chamber and hanging them on hooks near the door, then sorted through bottles in a cabinet before pouring some of the contents of one into the bath, filling the room with a wonderful spicy odour.

They bathed together, soaking in the hot scented water, sharing a few kisses and the odd intimate touch as they helped each other to scrub backs and clean feet. It was very pleasant and very relaxing, and Fenris thought he could easily have stayed there for hours with Zevran massaging his feet. Zevran's thoughts were clearly elsewhere though, a distracted expression on his face even as he rubbed the last bits of dead skin out from between Fenris' toes before pressing a ticklish kiss to the arch of it. He gave Fenris a brief smile, then released his foot and rose, stepping out of the tub. Fenris followed, accepting a towel from him, and the two of them wiped themselves dry before putting on the robes Zevran had selected. The one he handed Fenris was a very dark green, while the one he put on himself was a brighter green trimmed with a narrow band of bronze-coloured fabric. The robes were both the same size, which meant comfortably loose and knee-length on Zevran, and a snugger fit that only reached to mid-thigh on Fenris. He felt very conscious of how much of him it didn't cover, but the approving look Zevran gave him was... very nice. He felt his cheeks warming slightly, and was pleased when Zevran stepped close and pulled him down into a brief kiss.

"That looks every bit as magnificent on you as I thought it would," the smaller elf murmured, then led the way back to the bedroom.

Their clothing had all been taken away, and a large covered tray rested on a small table near the bed. Zevran bee-lined for it, removing the cover and making appreciative noises over the contents of the dishes. He picked it up and carried it over near the fireplace, setting it down on the floor before sinking down to sit cross-legged on a large sheepskin rug there, one of several that dotted the floor, and gestured for Fenris to join him. They ate there, quietly, neither in the mood to talk, sometimes feeding each other little tidbits, but mostly Fenris just enjoyed the fact that for the first time in weeks they had nowhere they needed to go, nothing they needed to do, for at least a few hours.

As they moved on to the dessert, Zevran's attention returned from wherever it had wandered off to. He smiled warmly at Fenris, then leaned over and kissed him. "I'm sorry, I had much to think about. Thank you for being so patient with me."

Fenris smiled and ducked his head. "It's all right. I liked how comfortable it felt... that we didn't _have_ to talk."

Zevran's smile widened into a grin, and he kissed Fenris again. "Good. Shall we go to bed?" he asked.

Fenris nodded. They put everything back on the tray, and Zevran covered it again and left it outside the door before joining Fenris on the bed. They were both tired, and did little more than curl up together before going to sleep.


	19. Extra Spice

Fenris woke to find Zevran already up and dressing. "Good morning!" the assassin said cheerfully, and walked back over to the bed, leaning down and kissing Fenris. "I need to go downstairs and arrange a few things, and then I'll be free until noon. Stay in bed or get up, as you please," he said, and kissed Fenris a second time before hurrying off.

Fenris smiled and elected to stay in bed for now, enjoying – as he had the night before – the lack of any real need to do anything specific at the moment. It had been a while since he'd last had so much quiet time, and he was surprised to realize just how much he'd missed it. Apart from an day or two here and there after reaching Starkhaven, and their layover in Kirkwall, he'd been pretty much on the go since the destruction of the Kirkwall chantry. Working Isabela's ship had certainly been no holiday, when he was first learning the ropes and fitting in with her crew, and then his journey up the Minanter had been a non-stop nightmare, from stowing away aboard the riverboat to the day's-long run across country from Ansburg to Starkhaven to bring word to Sebastian of the assassins on his trail. And then everything since then. True, there'd been days in Starkhaven when the most exciting things he had to deal with were dining with Sebastian, reading and writing lessons from Anders, and discussing castle security with Guard-Captain Cerin, but this was the first time when he actually had _nothing_ that needed doing. Just waiting, until Zevran was ready to continue on to Denerim and speak to King Alistair.

Accordingly, he rolled over and dozed off for a while, enjoying the opportunity to sleep in without worry. It was mid-morning before he finally rose. Habit rather than any real need made him go into the bathing chamber and sponge himself off to be sure he was clean, after which he started looking for something to wear. None of his clothes had been returned yet – unsurprising, it would likely take a full day for everything to be washed, dried, and ironed – so he resorted to looking among Zevran's clothing for something that would fit, something better than a robe – he needed clothing he could actually leave the room wearing.

Zevran breezed into the room while he was still investigating the contents of the armoire. "Looking for something to wear?" he asked.

"Yes. Unfortunately this is all too small for me."

"Try the chest of drawers, there should be some larger items of clothing in there," Zevran told him, then continued on into the bathing chamber, shutting the door behind him.

Fenris started with the top drawer. There was certainly a much larger range of clothing sizes among the articles stored there; most of it large enough that he was certain it was things that must have been left behind by previous lovers of the Antivan elf, as it was far too large for Zevran to have ever worn. There was a mix of men and women's clothing, ranging from simple clothing to some quite elaborate items, and he had to wonder what people had left here wearing, if this had been, presumably, what they'd come in dressed in. He managed to find a tunic that wouldn't be too overly large on him, though it was clearly cut for someone with rather broader shoulders than an elf, but the only leggings he could find were all cut far too large for him and would have been ridiculously loose, even after being belted tight, or were in styles that were far too fanciful for him to consider wearing.

He checked the second drawer with little better result, then skipped down to the bottom drawer. And stopped, staring at the contents, which certainly weren't clothing. Well... he spotted an article or two that he suspected were meant to be worn, but _he_ certainly wouldn't call them clothing! Fenris blushed deep red, staring into the drawer with a mix of fascination and... yes... fear. He'd seen objects like these once or twice before, but never under pleasant circumstances.

Zevran re-emerged from the bathing chamber just then. "Whoops, I should have mentioned the toy collection," he said cheerfully, walking over to Fenris' side, then stopped and gave Fenris a concerned look. "Fenris? Are you all right?" he asked softly.

Fenris shivered and then suddenly closed the drawer and straightened up. "Do you... do you actually _use_ those things?" he asked, voice low and hoarse.

Zevran frowned, then reached to take one of Fenris' hands in his, reaching up to place his other hand against Fenris' cheek. "Yes," he said quietly. "Sometimes I do. They're just toys, Fenris – something to add a little interest when with trusted friends."

Fenris shuddered again. "I don't understand how you can like any of... any of _that_," he said shakily.

Zevran frowned, then drew him over to the bed and made him sit down, sitting down beside him and putting one arm around him. "You have had bad experience of some such thing before," he said, and the way he said it, it was a statement, not a question. Fenris nodded unhappily.

"It is like everything else with sex, my friend... something that is done by choice with a trusted friend, a lover, feels much different and is far more exciting than something forced on you by someone you hate. Like kissing was, and sex. And you have learned to like those very much, have you not?"

Fenris nodded stiffly. Zevran leaned over enough to hug him. "It is another fear for you to overcome," he said firmly. "You do not have to, of course, I will never force you to do something you do not wish to. But I think you would be better off overcoming your fear than ignoring it."

Fenris sat in thought for a while, hands clenching and unclenching. Just the thought made him feel ill, but so, too, had the thought of sex at one time. And it was Zevran who had helped him to overcome that very monumental fear. This fear was... connected, part of the source of his original fear. He drew a deep breath. He wanted the fear gone; he wanted it _all_ gone. He nodded, too unsettled to speak.

Zevran hugged him again, a strong hug, a fiercely approving look on his face. "Good," he said. "Let us go look in the drawer. Point out two or three things that particularly frighten you. And then I will pick one of them, and help you to lose your fear of it, yes?"

Fenris rose and walked back over to the chest of drawers, and opened the bottom drawer again, then stared down into it. Most of the things – the toys, as Zevran called them – frightened him. But the worst were easy to pick out. He pointed – one, two, three – ignoring the way his hand was shaking.

"Good," Zevran said, and rose on tip-toe to kiss his cheek. "Go sit down again."

He did, watching as Zevran stood before the chest of drawers, a thoughtful expression on his face. After a while the elf bent down, and rose holding a coil of thin black rope in one hand. He pushed the drawer closed with his foot, then turned to Fenris and smiled. "Rope. Very useful stuff. One can use it to climb up or down from a window. Or to moor a ship to a dock, though this rope is far too thin for that. It could be used to make a bridle for your horse, if you needed one, or to tie a bedroll on behind your saddle. Or it can be used to tie a person," he said, then drew out the rope, uncoiling it, letting the length of it fall to pile up on the floor before him. He dropped it, leaving it lying there on the floor, half-on and half-off one of the sheepskin rugs, and walked over to the bedroom door, making sure it was shut and locked, then turned back around, looking at Fenris.

"You are staring at it as if it was a snake that might bite you," Zevran said softly, leaning back against the door. "Go and touch it. Pick it up. Handle it. It's just rope."

Fenris gazed at the other elf for a long moment, then silently rose and did as told. It was, as Zevran said, just rope. Cotton, he guessed by the feel of it as he ran a length of it through his hands, soft and with a very faint nap to it. Not something that would abrade the skin. He shivered, holding the coils of it loose in his hands, and looked at Zevran. "Why black?" he asked.

Zevran grinned. "A good question. Let me show you," he said, and stood up straight, walking over and taking the rope out of Fenris' hands. He walked over to the bed, dropping it careless on the mattress, then quickly stripped out of his clothes. "Help me find the middle of this," he said, picking up the rope and offering the two loose ends to Fenris. Fenris took them cautiously, and watched as the other elf ran the length of the doubled rope through his hand, until he reached the point where it ended in a fold. "You may let it go now," Zevran said, and Fenris quickly dropped it, as if scalded, and moved a step back.

"As I said a minute or two ago, rope can be used to tie a person. But it does not necessary have to tie a person _to_ something," he said, and began fastening the rope around himself, twisting and interlacing the cord, weaving it back and forth, to make a network of cords that covered him in a netting-like arrangement from the waist downwards, a pattern of twists and diamond-shaped openings, with his cock held upright against his stomach, contained within its own smaller network of cords. He smiled cheerfully at Fenris. "Easier to do with someone else managing the tying; some such arrangements cover the entire body. Some do prevent movement, and bind the person in place. This is a very small and simple example of the art. You see how beautifully the cord contrasts with my skin? That is why it is black. And you see how the cords tighten and loosen as I breath, as I move. As if I am being held by the cords, like someone's fingers resting against my skin. I am forced to remain aware of them, of the way they dig into my skin just slightly, of the way they roll and shift as I move," he said, pacing back and forth for a moment, the two long ends of rope gathered in one hand and held off to the side. He bent and turned, squatted for a moment, rose again, walked normally back over to Fenris, then held out the ends toward him. "Take these," he said.

Fenris hesitated, biting his lip.

"It is just rope," Zevran repeated again, softly.

He nodded reluctantly, and took hold of the ends.

"Now... tie another knot. And tell me I am not to undo the ropes until you tell me to," Zevran said, voice still soft but suddenly very intense.

Fenris froze, and stared at him for a long moment, then with shaking hands tied a knot. "Do not... do not untie the ropes. Until I say you may," he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Zevran grinned. "Good!" he said, then dug among his clothes, coming up with a knife and cutting the long ends free. "A good thing I have a lot of this stuff; I am forever ruining lengths of it. Now, will you trust me to do something with a piece of rope and you? Something very simple, I promise."

Again it took him some time before he was able to bring himself to nod. Zevran smiled, and had him untie and hold open his robe, then simply passed the rope from front to back around his waist, pulled it snug and twisted the rope around itself a couple of times behind his back, drew the ends forward again, and tied them off, cutting the loose ends off short. "No worse than the rope belt you wore at sea, right?" he asked. "And that certainly didn't scare you."

Fenris nodded, then took a shaky breath. He was, as Zevran had described, very aware of the rope's presence, of the way it tightened around his middle when he breathed in. But it didn't hurt or constrain his movement in any way, and that was... acceptable. Zevran drew him down into a kiss, his hands skimming along Fenris' skin underneath the robe, warm and reassuring. "I will not make you promise not to take the rope off. But I will ask you to keep it on unless you start feeling distressed about its presence, all right?"

"All right," Fenris agreed.

"Good. Now, let us get dressed," Zevran said, and quickly put his clothing back on again, over top of the rope. As thin as the cord was, there was no sign of it once he was clothed, though Fenris found himself feeling very aware that the rope was there, out of sight, and imagining what it must feel like, the faint constriction of it underneath layers of clothing. The thought was... not unpleasant. Like it was their secret, knowledge that only the two of them shared.

He put on the tunic he'd found, and Zevran found him some suitable smallclothes and a set of plain leggings that weren't comically loose on him. He looked perfectly normal once he was dressed, just like Zevran did.

"Good," Zevran said, and smiled happily at him. "Now, I have been too busy to eat yet, and you have been lying around in bed and not eating either, so I think the two of us should go downstairs and break our fast."

Fenris froze again. Leave the room, with the ropes still in place? He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but that... that was certainly not it.

Zevran had already turned and walked over to the door. He opened it, and looked back over his shoulder at Fenris, then smiled at him. "Aren't you coming?" he asked.

Fenris sighed and nodded, then followed him out of the room.

Breakfast seemed much like any breakfast, except that Fenris found his mind returning over and over again to the thought of the ropes tied around them under their clothing. His, as Zevran had pointed out, was not really much different than a rope belt, though the secretiveness of it was intriguing. He would even forget it was there for a while, until a deep breath or some other movement would remind him of its presence as it shifted or dug in slightly. He found himself thinking a lot of the more complicated network of cords knotted around Zevran; how must that feel? Especially the network of it that held the assassin's cock caged upright. He took a deeper breath, feeling the rope go snug against him, and imagined a similar snugness around his length. The thought was more exciting than he would have believed it could be, before today.

He found himself watching Zevran closely for any sign of discomfort or worry, but if anything the other elf was even more cheerful than usual, more talkative, his eyes bright and alert, his cheeks just ever so faintly flushed. He was _enjoying_ himself, Fenris realized, far more than Fenris was. The elf's earlier words came back to him – "something to add a little interest when with trusted friends" – and he relaxed a little further, as it sunk in that to Zevran, things like being tied up with rope was just an amusing game, not something to be feared. It was, after all, just rope – if there was to be fear, it should be reserved for the person doing the tying, the circumstances, not for the rope itself. He relaxed further, the last of his uneasiness vanishing away.

Zevran smiled warmly at him, reaching over to set his hand over Fenris'. "Better?" he asked quietly.

Fenris nodded. "Much. Should we go back to your room and, err... remove...?"

"Oh, no no no. This is a game I very much enjoy. It will add interest to what it otherwise going to be a very boring day for me, listening to the troubles of my tenants and sorting out their myriad problems. I will be able to look forward to the _afterwards_, when we do return to my room together, yes?"

The smouldering look he gave Fenris made it clear just what sort of activity he wanted to indulge in once his "boring day" was over with. Fenris felt his cheeks and ears heating with self-conscious embarrassment, then suddenly laughed. "All right," he agreed, smiling at Zevran. "And what should I do while you are enduring your day of boredom?"

Zevran grinned. "I could ask you to endure it with me, but that would be unkind. There is a small library upstairs, with a balcony overlooking the hall. You could read, if you like, or watch and listen in privacy, whichever you preferred."

Fenris nodded. "That sounds like a good choice," he agreed. Zevran smiled again, and after they'd finished the meal rose and led the way back upstairs, down a short hallway, and into a small library that, as promised, had an opening to a balcony in one wall, overlooking the large hall.

Zevran pointed out a few shelves of books on topics he thought Fenris might find particularly interesting or useful – histories, and a section of books about estate management and agriculture – and then gave him a very heated kiss, pushing himself against Fenris in a way that made it very clear just how much he was enjoying being tied. Fenris felt his own cheeks flush as he hardened a little in response.

Zevran was grinning widely as he left the room. It took several minutes for Fenris to regain his composure, after which he browsed the titles of the books about agriculture, and was pleasantly rewarded by finding one dealing with the growing of grapes. It dealt mainly with problems specific to trying to grow them in Ferelden, where they did poorly apart from in in the north and seemingly required much more labour-intensive care to help protect the growing vines from late frosts and the ripening fruit from early ones, not to mention the depredations of migrating birds, but it could be done, and was, overall, a fascinating read.

He grew aware after a while of Zevran's voice somewhere nearby, and put down the book to go over to the balcony and look down into the hall. Zevran was seated at one end of the room, before the windows, in a chair that was not a throne, but was instead an overstuffed wing-back armchair that he was sitting in a comfortable sprawl within. There was a simple wooden bench nearby, on which the current pair of petitioners were perched, while he seemingly asked them a multitude of questions about the issue they'd brought before him. He sent a nearby servant to fetch him a map laid waiting on a nearby table, and studied it for a while, then waved the two men to rise and come closer, and pointed out some feature on the map, before beginning to gesture and talk quickly. The two men looked uncertain at first, then slowly nodded, and then all three of them were smiling and the two men shook hands with each other. Zevran sent the pair of them off with the servant, who settled them down at a table in one corner of the room and began writing up three copies of a document, with much reference to the map and occasional questioning of the two men.

Meanwhile Zevran had moved on to talking quietly with another petitioner, a very pregnant young woman, leaning forward in his chair with his elbows on his knees, so that he and the woman's heads were close together. He was smiling and seemed amused by whatever it was the woman was telling him; in the end he laughed, and handed the woman a small purse. She was all smiles when she rose to her feet, and bowed to him repeatedly before leaving the room. The next person was an old grandfatherly type, who walked with a cane, and refused a seat, instead standing leaning with both hands on his cane while talking to Zevran for some time. Zevran listened with a very serious expression on his face, nodding at intervals, then rose to his feet and shook the man's hand before he left. By then the servant – a clerk, Fenris supposed – had finished with the two men from earlier, and brought them and the three copies of the document back over to Zevran. Zevran and the two men gathered around a table, signing or making their marks on all three documents, the clerk signing as well, then Zevran sealed all three of the documents with wax and a signet ring. The clerk carried off one copy of the document – presumably for Zevran's own records – and the two men each took a copy as well, and bowed respectfully to Zevran before leaving, both looking quite pleased with the outcome of their petition.

Fenris watched Zevran handle a couple of other petitioners, trying to guess what each case was about when he could hear the voices but not actually make out the words, then eventually returned to his book. His earlier interest in it was lost, however, and he returned it to the shelves, browsing titles again for a while before settling down with a history of the distant Orlesian settlement of Mont-de-glace that he suspected was more fantasy than real history. Boats made of the skins of sea-swimming beasts with horns? A place so cold year-round that nothing grew much beyond ankle-height, and there were no trees at all? And great white bears that stood half again as tall as the tallest man... no, it must be made up. An entertaining read nonetheless, with its stories of people who froze in their houses of stone during a weeks-long night while the natives slept warm in domes of snow and ice.

It was the silence that attracted his attention next, the background murmur of voices having finally died away. He rose again, and walked back to the balcony, looking down. The room was empty now, except for Zevran, who was standing by the windows, looking out at the village down below. He turned and looked up, his gaze meeting Fenris'. A very heated gaze.

"Meet me in our room," Zevran called out, voice low but intense, then dropped his gaze and left the room.

Fenris swallowed, and took a shaky breath, noticing the rope digging into his flesh just slightly, as he had not been aware of it for some time now. He left the room without even pausing to put the book back away, and hurried down the hallway, back to the balcony that encircled the entryway. Zevran had just reached the top of the stairs when Fenris arrived there, and without a word the slighter elf closed the distance between them, pushing Fenris back against the wall and pulling his head down into a passionate kiss. Zevran ground his hips against Fenris' thigh, gripping his head almost painfully hard as he kissed him, nipping at his lower lip.

"I thought today's audience was never going to end," Zevran said huskily when the kiss finally ended. "Come. To our room," he said, and led the way along the balcony and into the bedroom. As soon as the door was closed he turned and kissed Fenris again, then began stripping himself rapidly down. As soon as he skinned out of his shirt Fenris could see that he was erect within the constraining network of thin rope, the front of his leggings damp where moisture from his tip had soaked into the fabric. His own cock hardened in response, and he quickly began removing his own clothing as well. He reached to untie the rope belt from around his waist, then hesitated, looking to Zevran for guidance.

"Leave it for now," Zevran said. "Come, take me... I have been able to think of little else for the last hour," he said, and went and climbed up onto the bed, settling down on his hands and knees with his rump lifted in a way that made it abundantly clear just what he wanted.

"Oil?" Fenris asked, staring.

"The drawer, there," Zevran gestured with one hand at a table beside the bed. Fenris quickly located the required article, slicking a palmful over himself then hurriedly preparing Zevran as well, shaken and more than a little stirred by the _sounds_ the other elf made as his fingers probed inside of him. He eyed the ropes a little worriedly, again uncertain about their presence. "Are you sure...?" he asked, tugging slightly on a loop of the rope where it passed over Zevran's hip, to make it clear what he was asking about.

"Yes! Just _fuck me_, Fenris!" Zevran ordered.

Fenris tried to be gentle, but Zevran was not in the mood for gentleness and pushed himself almost violently backwards after a moment, impaling himself on Fenris' length, a move that made them both cry out in pain. He had only ever had gentle, careful experiences with Zevran before – this wilder, harsher side of him was one he wasn't sure how to react to. But Zevran seemed to want him to not be gentle, to just _take_ him, and... he did. It frightened him a little, how _good_ it felt to just pound himself into the other elf, how exciting he found the sounds Zevran was making, the muffled cries as he shouted into the pillows under his head, the way he struggled and pushed against the bedding so as not to be pushed forward by Fenris pumping hard into him from behind. Without considering what it was that he was doing, he knotted his fingers into the ropes and tugged on them, making them dig into Zevran's flesh as he pulled the elf back hard against himself

Zevran wailed and convulsed, struggling within Fenris' grasp, clenching tightly around Fenris as he came. It frightened Fenris, how good it felt to see Zevran coming completely undone beneath him like that. Frightened him too because of how badly it made him feel, that he was _hurting_ Zevran, even if Zevran seemed to be enjoying what was happening. He pulled out and backed off even while Zevran was still crying out, his spend dappling the sheet beneath him. Fenris curled up tightly, feeling scared and sad, and expecting... he wasn't sure what. To be scolded, maybe? He felt a wave of shame over his earlier pleasure. Surely his enjoyment must be similar to how those who had purposefully hurt him had felt, and that was _wrong_.

Then Zevran's arms were wrapped around him, holding him tightly, the other elf speaking softly and reassuringly to him. He twisted around and clung to Zevran, burying his face against his shoulder, and suddenly found himself crying. Zevran hugged him tightly, and held him, rocking him back and forth a little, and rubbing and patting his back until the tears finally ended.

"Feel better now?" Zevran asked. Fenris could only nod. Zevran rubbed his back again. "I am sorry," he said.

That startled Fenris into sitting back and staring at Zevran. "What!? No, it's I that should be sorry... I _hurt_ you..."

Zevran's lips twisted into an amused smile. "No, you did not. Or rather, you did, just a little, but it is the kind of pain that is pleasurable... something I wanted. It is like the kissing, it makes a difference as to what the intent is. And we were both enjoying that, at least at first, were we not?"

Fenris chewed on his lip, then slowly nodded, and flushed. "At first, yes. And then I felt ashamed of it."

"There should be no shame," Zevran said calmly, and hugged Fenris again. "Sometimes it is nice to not be gentle; to let passion rule, rather than sense. And sometimes that means enduring a little pain, along with the pleasure. It is like..." he paused, and frowned, clearing searching for a comparison. Suddenly he smiled. "It is like having a taste for spicy food, yes? A little pepper is pleasant, the tingle on the tongue, the warmth of it. And if you like spicy foods you may want to sometimes have hotter foods, sometimes even very hot foods, ones that make the lips tingle and the tongue burn, and you sweat and turn red and it hurts, but it's a hurt you like, so it's good, and you enjoy it. Sex can be like that sometimes. Wanting the pain as well as the pleasure. Trust yourself, Fenris – you would never hurt me just to be cruel, to take your pleasure from my pain, would you?"

"No," Fenris agreed, softly. He sighed, and put his own arms around Zevran, hugging him tightly for a moment. "I don't like hurting you."

Zevran smiled. "And I am glad you don't. Though as I am Antivan, and a Crow, I must warn you I have a taste for spice, even painfully hot things. I have been very good and kept to safe and gentle things with you so far, while you learned to like sex, but sometimes I will want something more exciting. Like today, when I didn't want you to be gentle. The thought frightens you," he added, and reached up to lightly stoke his fingers along Fenris' cheek. "Your only experience of pain has mostly been of the bad kinds, I am thinking; pain from injury in battle, pain caused by someone who delights in causing the pain. And of the good kind, you've only had a very little bit; a light pinch, or a little nip of a bite," Zevran said, and tweaked Fenris' nipple, drawing a gasp from him. Zevran grinned. "You like when I do that."

"Yes, sometimes," Fenris agreed, and flushed. "Because it's you."

Zevran grinned. "And I liked what we were just doing, very much, because it's you," he agreed. "Come, let us try again, more gently this time," and moved away, lying down at the head of the bed on his back, shoulders and head raised by the pillows, his knees lifted and spread. "You see, I am ready again," he added, voice more than a little husky. And he was; his cock was already swelling again, within its cage of rope.

Fenris frowned and moved to kneel between his thighs, looking down at him. "That... doesn't hurt, does it?" he asked.

Zevran smiled warmly at him. "No. It is quite loosely tied. It is just a firm pressure where the ropes cross it, like having someone's fingers wrapped around me. It feels very good. Even more so when you are moving in me, and the ropes shift and roll a little."

Fenris blushed, then leaned forward, bracing himself on one arm while he stroked himself a little with the other, then guided himself to enter Zevran again. They took it slowly this time, waiting for them both to adjust, and then Fenris began a gentle thrusting, the motion rocking Zevran back and forth a little. He found himself looking downwards, watching the network of ropes and seeing how they gave and shifted a little with each movement, rolling back and forth against Zevran's skin. Zevran was clearly enjoying the sensation, shifting around a little more than he normally did. After a while he reached up, wrapping his arms around Fenris' shoulders. "You see?" he said breathlessly. "Just a little spice."

Fenris nodded. And yelped, as Zevran pinched his ear. Zevran grinned, then cried out in unashamed pleasure as Fenris picked up his pace somewhat, thrusting a little harder.

It was good. And afterwards, Zevran stripped off the rope and tossed it aside, and the two of them curled up together and napped for a while before supper. It still bothered him, just a little, that he'd enjoyed causing pain, and yet... Zevran was right. Intent mattered. The rope was just rope. Pain could be pleasant, from the right person, in the right circumstances. And... he wanted to please Zevran, who had done so much to help him already. If sometimes Zevran wanted him to be rough instead of gentle, that was something he thought he could bring himself to do. But only because it was desired by Zevran.

Content for now, he napped, and only when they went to dress before going downstairs to eat did he realize he was still wearing the rope belt, its presence long since forgotten.


	20. Denerim

Fenris could not help but smile as he looked over at Zevran as the two of them reined to a stop on a high hilltop bordering the south-western edge of Zevran's bannorn. The elf's golden eyes were bright and happy, a broad smile curving his lips, his cheeks reddened from the wind that teased at their hair and the horses' manes with equal effect. It was a cold day, the sky blue and cloudless, with a nip in the air that warned that it could not be all that much longer until the snowy days began; there'd been frost on the ground when they'd set out this morning, departing the little settlement of stonemasons that worked a quarry here in the southern hills.

"There," Zevran said, lifting one gloved hand to point down across the broad river valley spread out below them. "At the foot of that mountain – that is Denerim. We should be there by mid-afternoon."

Fenris turned and looked. It was just a smudge, from here – a smudge of browns and greys huddled against the foot of a tall cliff of pale stone, sprawling to either side of a river and the bay at the river's mouth; the Denerim harbour, where Isabela's ship would have docked. A smudge of smoke over it, as well, from all the fires for warmth and industry that burned within its walls. Larger than he'd expected – larger than Kirkwall. But then, Kirkwall was essentially little more than a city-state, while Denerim was capital of an entire country.

They rode down the hill, soon loosing sight of the city behind intervening hills, and a short while later their narrow dirt track of a road merged into a much larger, well-maintained highway, its broad surface hard-packed from much traffic – the North Road, Zevran had said, which ran from Denerim north to Amaranthine, and then paralleled the coast at a distance all the way west to Highever before dipping south to meet the ancient Imperial Highway at the north end of Lake Calenhad. They made much better time on the highway, and it wasn't long until they rounded a last forested hill and saw their road dipping down a last long slope to merge with a second highway – the West Road – just outside the main gates of the city.

"Is that the palace?" Fenris asked, pointing toward an impressively high tower rising at the south-western corner of the city, hard up against the sheer cliff that towered even higher than it did.

"No," Zevran answered, frowning for a moment. "That, my friend, is Fort Drakon – it is one of several such towers built in Ferelden by the Avvar and dwarves in pre-Imperium times. The palace is to the northwest from there; an impressive structure of its type, but not particularly visible from here."

"That's pre-Imperium?" Fenris said, impressed, and studied the tower interestedly as they rode closer to the city. "They built well," he said after a while.

"Yes, very well indeed," Zevran agreed. "There are a handful of equally ancient structures still in use in Ferelden, and even some elven ruins from the time of Arlathan, though they are not in such good condition, having been abandoned to the elements for centuries. But the dwarves have always been excellent stonemasons, and when the Avvar hired them, they built for the ages."

They began to see more traffic on the road as they neared the city; farmers pulling carts of produce toward it, or empty carts away, and a merchant caravan of ox-drawn waggons setting out to the west. Apart from the oxen, there seemed to be very little use of livestock as dray animals; a trader passed them heading north leading a string of three mules, and Fenris glimpsed a small cart drawn by what he thought was either a dog or a goat in a village set some distance back from the road, but most of the carrying and pulling was being done by men, not animals.

Zevran shrugged when he asked him why. "It's a hard land; overwintering animals is difficult. Most animals are kept for meat, milk, and wool, not as beasts of burden. Only the well-off can afford mules, donkeys, or oxen – mostly oxen, as even donkeys and mules are rare here, and usually owned by foreign merchants. Ferelden has very few horses, and those are all owned by nobles."

"Why? The climate is cold, yes, but horses can be found in abundance in equally cold areas of Orlais, from what I have read."

"Because horses can be used in war, and when the Orlesians occupied Ferelden, they reserved the beasts for their own use; any horses they found, they either kept for themselves, shipped west to sell in Orlais, or slaughtered to keep them out of the hands of the Fereldans. The rebels still managed to field a cavalry, but mostly they had to use foot-soldiers against mounted men, especially after the disaster at West Hill that saw much of their army – and almost all of their horses – killed in battle. After they lost the war, the retreating Orlesians killed any horses they could not take with them, as well as vast numbers of oxen, goats, and so on, to make it harder for Ferelden to recover. They planned to re-occupy Ferelden at some point, and sought to weaken the country however they could. And then afterwards, the Orlesian Crown declared it an act of treason to sell horses to Fereldan buyers. While they cannot prevent people from places like the Free Marches doing so, any merchant who wishes to trade in Orlais finds it wise not to break their laws. So horses are still quite rare here, almost forty years on, as are most beasts of burden. And considered far too valuable to use to pull plows and waggons, when mules or oxen or men can do that."

Fenris nodded, and thought for a while. "This might be a good market for my horses than, if I succeed in establishing a good breeding herd," he eventually said. "Especially as I have no interest in trade with Orlais."

"Yes," Zevran agreed, and smiled toothily. "And the horses you wish to buy and breed, and that Ferelden nobles value most and want more of, are the ones like your Ari – the destriers. Oh, they want coursers too, and even rounceys, but it's the destriers they long for. And need; as you can image, foot-soldiers against mounted warriors is a very uneven battle. Even with archers and pikemen among their ranks, the foot-soldiers are at a vast disadvantage. You watch – they will covet even my Feo, who is regarded as nothing more than a cull in the north. Your Ari they will all but worship."

They were approaching the city gates by then. The guards there were eyeing the two of them with open suspicion – doubtless with horses so rare, seeing elves with six of them was unheard of. As they drew closer one of the guards stepped out into the gateway, barring their path. And then suddenly grinned, his attention now fixed on Zevran. "Bann Zevran!" he called out. "It's been ages since you last visited Denerim."

Zevran grinned as he slowed Feo down to a stop. "Ser Orain – a pleasure to see your face again. I have been abroad, and am but lately returned from the north. This is my friend Lord Fenris of Brynhir, from Starkhaven."

"Starkhaven! You _have_ been far afield," the guard exclaimed. "Well, I won't delay you any further," he said, running a covetous eye over their mounts as he spoke, then grinned up at Zevran. "You know where everything is."

Zevran grinned back. "That I do. Could you do me a small favour, and send word ahead to the palace that I am on my way directly there? Someone on foot can make it there long before we'll be able to get there on horseback."

"Of course, ser," the guard agreed, before withdrawing from their path.

Fenris looked around as they rode into the city. "Why will it take so much longer for us?" he asked, and gestured to a pair of bridges to the south of them "Can we not go that way?"

"No, though that is likely the way the messenger will go. Those bridges lead to the army barracks on the south bank; public traffic is not allowed over them, and even if it was, the barracks are walled off from the rest of the city. There is a gate than allows for exit into the city on that side, but it is usually kept closed and locked, with only a small door within the larger gate opened; too small for horses. The noble quarter is beyond the barracks, and the nobles have no wish for off-duty soldiers in their neighbourhood, so apart from some small amount of official traffic between Fort Drakon and the barracks, no one is allowed through. We will have to ride well to the east of here, and take either the Market bridge to the alienage, or the Harbour Bridge a little east of it. Most likely the Harbour Bridge; we would have a great detour north around the market to reach the street leading to the Market Bridge, and I have no desire to do that, nor to try taking our horses through either the market or the alienage."

Fenris could understand Zevran's desire to avoid both by the time they reached the point where the broad road they were on passed underneath the high Market Bridge; even with a solid row of buildings between them and it, he could hear the noise of the crowded market from here, while the alienage visible on the south bank across the river looked like the worst sort of slums. And likely was; even in a country where the elves were reportedly being rather better-treated since the events of the Blight than they were elsewhere in Thedas, they were still the poorest and poorest-treated of citizens.

It wasn't long until they reached the Harbour Bridge, and turned south across it. It was a much narrower bridge, and the street on the other side equally so, though it soon reached a broader road running from the docks visible downhill to the east and out of sight uphill to the west. They followed its winding path to the west, and soon reached a very broad road. It was a fine avenue, running from south of them before curving off to the west again just north of where their street joined it. The broadest street he'd yet seen, wide enough that five or six waggons could have passed each other on it.

"It is part of the defences of the upper city," Zevran explained as he led them to the north and west, pointing out the alienage gate as they rode by it. "Look beyond those buildings to the south of us – or along the south side of the road ahead of us, for that matter – you see the high wall? That encircles the entire noble quarter, with another wall within it dividing off the palace grounds. Except for where it detours around this block of businesses by the alienage gate, this broad way runs along the base of the wall, and provides a clear sight-line and wide field of fire for archers up on the walls. Where the buildings are was once a park, I am told; they should have left it so, or changed the path of the street when they decided to build there. It creates a blind spot in their defences."

Fenris nodded, studying the wall interestedly as it came up a side-street from the south and turned to parallel the road. It was at least two or three times his height, with a battlement lining the side overlooking the street, and towers at regular intervals along it, some quite small – only large enough for one or two men to mount to the top of – and others being larger, fortified positions.

The north side of the road was open here, running as it did for a stretch along the top of a steep drop to the river below. At one point there was a narrow road running down to a small quay at the water's edge, so steep it was more a staircase than a road. They passed a couple of gated street entrances on the south, as well. And then ahead of them the road became walled to either side, the sloping area north of the road occupied with what he guessed from their position relative to the city gates to be the army barracks Zevran had spoke of earlier.

A massive building stood on the southern side of the street there, a fortified castle; the palace, he assumed. They rode all the way past it, to a large gate in the wall giving onto a street leading south. To their right were several large, well-built townhouses; to their left, a wall separating off the palace grounds from the street. They soon reached a gate in that wall. The guards there were clearly expecting them, letting them enter the palace enclosure without questioning or protest. They passed through the wall, and emerged in a very small courtyard backed by the imposing mass of the castle. A small group of people stood at the top of the wide castle steps, and even before they'd come to a stop one had broken away from the group and was plunging down the stairs toward them. A plainly dressed man, wearing a worn and stained linen shirt and loose leggings, with scuffed leather boots on his feet. A groom, Fenris guessed, which seemed to be confirmed when the man ignored them and came right up to Ari, reaching out to grasp the stallion's bridle with one hand while letting the horse snuffle at his other hand, a pleased smile on his face.

"Well," the man said, in a soft, almost awed tone of voice that brought Zevran's earlier words back to Fenris – that they would all but worship Ari. "Aren't you a beauty!"

Fenris looked away, glancing nervously up the stairs at the descending cluster of richly dressed people, only then noticing that Zevran had already dismounted and was ignoring the approaching group to look instead at the plainly-dressed man, an oddly neutral expression on his face as he stood there studying him for a moment, holding Feo's reins in one hand.

"Your majesty," Zevran said in a carrying voice, and dropped to one knee, bowing his head. Fenris stared for a moment, mouth dropping open in shock as he realized who it must be that had hold of his horse's head.


	21. Catching Up

Fenris hastily dismounted, going down on one knee as well. The man – the King – turned his head, and smiled in amusement, his eyes on Zevran. "I've told you before you don't have to do that," he said mildly.

Zevran grinned, and rose to his feet. "You know Soria would have my head if I didn't show you proper respect, my King."

Alistair snorted, then turned to look interestedly at Fenris, one hand scratching Ari expertly around the forelock and ears. "And who's this?"

Zevran gestured for Fenris to rise as he answered. "My King, this is a friend of mine, Lord Fenris of Brynhir, which is in Starkhaven. Fenris, I present you to His Royal Majesty, King Alistair Theirin of Ferelden," he said, and bowed again to Alistair, very prettily. Fenris bowed as well, feeling awkward compared to the assassin.

Alistair grinned crookedly, still looking more amused than anything else. "_Lord_ Fenris?" he said questioningly.

"He is a close friend of Prince Sebastian Vael, and has saved his life a time or three," Zevran said airily. "Prince Sebastian saw fit to reward him for it, much as you saw fit to reward myself with Blackmarsh."

Alistair nodded, then turned his attention back to Ari. "What a gorgeous horse," he said, and gave Ari a final pat before stepping away from him. He glanced at the reins that Fenris was still holding, and smiled. "Yours, I take it?"

"Yes, your Majesty," Fenris said.

"A gift to Fenris from Prince Vael," Zevran said casually, which Fenris only later realized was Zevran making it clear to Alistair that the horse was neither there as a gift to him, nor likely to be sold. "And part of the reason for why Fenris has accompanied me here to Ferelden; he has decided to go into breeding, and seeks hardy stock and possibly a market to sell to in a few years once his breeding herd is established."

Alistair nodded, and gave Ari a final, envious look. "Well, if he plans to breed horses as handsome in form and size as this one, I'm sure he'll find many possible buyers here; including the crown." He glanced over toward the stairs, where the remainder of his party were standing. "Excuse me for a moment while I say farewell to my other guests; you know where the stables are, Zevran."

"Of course," Zevran said, and after Alistair had walked away to rejoin the group at the foot of the stairs, gestured to Fenris to follow and led him off along a wide paved path around the north side of the castle.

Fenris held his tongue until they were well beyond earshot and out of sight of the courtyard. "_That _is King Alistair Theirin?" he asked, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice.

Zevran grinned, clearly amused by his disbelief. "Yes. He was raised a peasant, you see – he worked as a stable-boy, in fact, before being sent off to the chantry. He has little patience for courtly manners and much prefers plain speech and simple clothing. The Queen makes him dress properly for official functions, but much of the time he dresses as you just saw – though usually of rather finer and less worn or grubby fabrics. Likely he was puttering around in his garden or out in the stables or kennels when that other group arrived, and as they weren't invited guests, saw no reason to change for them."

"How can you be sure they weren't invited guests?"

"Because he didn't change for them," Zevran said, and then grinned again, "And because I recognized them; a group of minor nobles from the Bannorn, none of whom Alistair has any patience for, as they resisted Soria being made Arlessa over them. Not merely because she was a Grey Warden, which was problematic enough, but because of her being a Dalish elf. He was rather irked at the time. Though these, at least, were not among the worst of them – the worst were foolish enough to try and have her killed. And hired a Crow cell for the attempt. Not even a particularly good cell; little more than thugs. Soria killed them all, of course."

They heard a shout behind them just as they reached the stables, and turned to see Alistair running along the path to catch up with them. They stopped, waiting for him. To Fenris' surprise, when Alistair reached them he grabbed Zevran in a bear hug, pounding him on the back, the elf hugging him back just as tightly and both of them grinning widely; a considerably warmer greeting than they'd first exchanged. Fenris guessed they must have been holding back because of the watching nobles.

"Maker, it's good to see you again, Zevran!" Alistair exclaimed, grin widening. "I've missed you this last year. And Soria! I had word from Sigrun that she and Nathaniel had both headed off somewhere... and you with them. What happened? Where is she?"

"Slower, my friend. I will tell you, but only once we're indoors and seated, and well away from any listening ears. Come, you can help us put up our horses, and admire Ari some more. I'm sure Fenris won't mind, as long as you don't try to steal his horse," he said, and grinned at Fenris.

"He's _magnificent_ – I don't suppose you'll let us stand him to one of our mares, if one comes in season while he's here?" Alistair asked, looking questioningly at Fenris. "Wrong time of year for it, really, but it might happen."

"I have no objection, your Majesty," Fenris said formally.

"_Not_ your Majesty – call me Alistair," he said, smiling. "At least when no nobles are around."

"But _we're_ all nobles, my dear King," Zevran pointed out in an overly innocent manner.

Alistair made a face. "_You_ know what I mean. Anyway, yes, let's get these horses seen to, and then you can tell me what you've been up to for the last year."

Zevran nodded, and Alistair led the way into the barn. Fenris couldn't decide which was odder – having a king acting like a stable boy, or the fact that he didn't feel like a king at all. Then he found himself considering that Alistair's friendship with Zevran was probably much like Sebastian's with him, and Sebastian never stood on ceremony with him, either, and finally relaxed. Royalty acting differently with personal friends than they did with random strangers was something he understood.

Still, it was distinctly odd to follow Alistair into the castle afterwards, and up to his rooms, especially as Alistair had insisted on helping to carry a share of their gear. The servants here seemed oblivious to their passing, completely ignoring the three of them except for when Alistair stopped one briefly to order food and drink brought up to his rooms. The servants in Starkhaven had always acknowledged Sebastian's presence, even if with just a quick dip of the head or hurried bend of the knee as he strode past.

King Alistair's quarters proved to be a spacious suite of well-lit rooms. The furnishings were all of heavy wood, dark with age, decorated with nothing more than a little shallowly-carved interlacing rather than anything like the much more ornate and colourful furnishings that Sebastian's quarters possessed. The fireplace surround was of granite, the uprights roughly shaped in the form of two sitting dogs, rather than the finely shaped and polished marble that there had been even in the plainer guest rooms in the Starkhaven palace. The entire palace had a much rougher and more rural look than he'd expected; it seemed sturdy and workmanlike throughout rather than filled with polished elegance.

Though there were finer touches about the place; some beautiful tapestries hung on the walls, the floor of the room was covered wall-to-wall in a deep carpet patterned with twining vines, muted greens and browns on a cream ground. The furniture was well-padded with embroidered cushions and pillows, the windows curtained with heavy drapes in one of the same greens as was used in the carpet. A collection of beautifully carved figurines stood on the mantelpiece, over which hung a battered shield displaying the Grey Warden griffons. The candlesticks, though plainly shaped, were of gold.

There was a scrabble of claws against flooring, and a door at one side of the room flew open, a large brown brindle dog charged into the room. A mabari, though judging by its smallish size and gangly limbs, he realized it was only partially grown, not far out of puppy-hood. It came to a sudden stop, staring at him and Zevran, then began barking excitedly at them.

"Hush, Fidget," Alistair said. "They're friends."

The dog stopped barking, and tilted its head to one side, whining once, then abruptly sprang into motion again, stub of a tail wagging excitedly as it romped over to Alistair and started leaping up and down around his feet, making odd little whining noises of excitement. Alistair laughed, and dropped to one knee. The puppy immediately lunged upwards, snuffling and licking at his face and neck, which made him laugh even louder as he leaned away from its rather moist attempts at affection, his hands moving to dig into the thick fur around its neck.

"Fidget?" Zevran said, sounded amused, his eyebrows rising. "Not Barkspawn?"

Alistair grinned and blushed. "No, not Barkspawn. Soria made me promise to never actually name a mabari that. Anyway, Fidget is just a nickname. Well, a nickname of a nickname."

"A nickname of a nickname...?"

His blush darkened. "Yes. Her real name is Philomene. But I, um... was calling her Idjut for a while, because she kept doing such awfully stupid or silly things. Mair pointed out that wasn't a particularly nice thing to call her. So I changed it to Fidget, which is closer to her real name anyway. And which she also does a lot of, as you can see," he added, smiling fondly down at the dog, who was now rolled over on her back at his feet, wiggling around happily as he rubbed her chest and tummy.

"And how is Queen Mairead?" Zevran asked, sitting down on the arm of a chair, and gesturing for Fenris to take a seat beside him, which Fenris hesitantly did. "And the children?"

"Oh, she's fine," Alistair said, looking up with a warm smile on his face. "And the boys are fine. They'll be pleased to see you again... well, Mairead and Maric will be, I'm not sure Duncan remembers you."

Zevran smiled. "I will be pleased to see them as well."

Alistair gave the mabari a final pat, then rose to his feet. He glanced once at Fenris, then turned his attention back to Zevran again. "Zev... where's Soria?" he asked, expression suddenly serious.

Zevran sighed. "I do not know, my friend – other than that she has gone away. It is a long story, and only one part of what I have come here to talk to you about."

Before he could begin there was a knock at the door; servants, bringing the refreshments Alistair had ordered; a large tray of assorted finger-foods, and a pitcher of ale. Alistair directed the servants to put it down on a low table near the chair the two elves were sharing, and sat down in a second chair nearby. Zevran rose and took up the pitcher, pouring for all of them, while Alistair quickly loaded a plate for himself with an assortment of different things to eat. "Help yourself," he told Fenris, gesturing at the tray before popping a cube of cheese into his mouth.

Fenris nodded, and did so, heaping his plate with little pastries, buttered bread, an assortment of pickles, cubes of cheese, slices of cold meat and little sausages. Zevran started assembling a similar plate once he'd finished pouring ale, and they were soon all seated again, food and drink at hand. Zevran perched again on the arm of the chair Fenris was in, his own plate balanced on one side-bent knee.

"Tell me," Alistair said, looking intently at Zevran.

Zevran nodded, took a deep sip of his ale, then began. "My tale has its roots in the north. You remember hearing of the Champion of Kirkwall? A Fereldan refugee, whose mother had been a noble of Kirkwall before marrying his father and moving to Ferelden. Hawke, he is called."

"Yes, I recall the stories of him."

"His sister Bethany has been one of Soria's Grey Wardens for some years, after contracting the taint while on an expedition into the Deep Roads she and her brother had joined. Last year she was abducted and taken back north, by a radical group of mages and templars who planned to use her presence to blackmail Hawke into co-operating with their plans. Soria had set me on the trail of the abductors; I followed them Kirkwall. I arrived in Kirkwall only to find a minor war having started, and Hawke reunited with his sister, having rescued her already. Afterwards they both vanished, so I returned to the keep. Hawke arrived there some few weeks afterwards, having decided to escort his sister there after they'd both escaped events in Kirkwall. He remained there for several months, during which time he and Soria were closeted in private conversation several times; conversations that I was not privy to."

"Not even illicitly?" Alistair asked, eyebrows rising slightly.

Zevran grinned. "I tried. But Soria learned from a master how to both detect and prevent eavesdroppers, and I was unable to listen in."

Alistair grinned in a way that made Fenris guess that the 'master' had been Zevran himself. He took a sip of his ale to hide a smile of his own. It wasn't bad; he'd have preferred wine over ale or beer, but of its kind it was a decently potable beverage. Which he supposed only made sense; it was unlikely a King would be served swill.

Zevran took a bite of bread and cheese and washed it down with ale, then continued. "Whatever it was Hawke and Soria discussed led to Soria deciding that the two of them needed to travel to somewhere in the north. It may be connected with Flemeth, who is not dead."

"But we killed her," Alistair said, looking surprised. "I stuck a sword through her skull. How can she not be dead?"

Zevran shrugged. "I do not understand it myself. But she was alive in the north at a time after we killed her; Fenris here witnessed it."

Which led to Fenris having to briefly explain the Hawke family's escape from Ferelden with Flemeth's assistance, the favour she had asked Hawke in return for it, and the outcome of said favour. Alistair nodded soberly when Fenris finished. "All right – so the witch is still alive. And Soria and Hawke went north, you say?"

"Yes. North and west. Originally she had intended for just Hawke and herself to go; Nathaniel was to remain behind as acting Warden-Commander during her absence. But he and Hawke had become lovers, and he refused to be left behind. As, of course, did I," Zevran added with a toothy smile.

Alistair smiled crookedly. "Yet you're here now."

Zevran sighed, looking saddened. "Yes, I am here now. I travelled with them as far as Starkhaven. We were following the Minanter to the west, when Soria received word that Anders... You remember him? The healer mage she had in Amaranthine for a while?"

"Didn't he die, or vanish? Or something like that?"

"Something like that, yes – we will speak more of him and his disappearance later. After vanishing he made his way north to Kirkwall, where he lived for a number of years, and became a close friend of Hawke's. He was instrumental in the destruction of the Chantry there; apparently that was part of a conspiracy between himself and that Fade Spirit that was with the Wardens for a while – Justice. While travelling we learned that he was now being held prisoner in Starkhaven, by Prince Vael, who'd promised gruesome revenge on the mage for his actions in Kirkwall, the prince having been a brother in the chantry there for some years, and a favourite of Grand Cleric Elthina, who died there. Naturally Soria was unwilling to pass by Starkhaven without making some effort to retrieve her errant Warden, and Hawke also wished to rescue his friend. So she sent Nathaniel and myself to free him, and we abducted him. It turned out that Anders was being held prisoner by his own choice – he'd surrendered to the Prince voluntarily, who had decided against killing him in the end. And after investigating the circumstances of it, Soria agreed that it was best he remain there, and paroled him to Sebastian's care under her authority. Though there was some little misunderstandings first, of course."

Zevran paused, turning to look at Fenris, and smiled. "Which is how I came to meet Fenris. And almost lost my life as a result."

Fenris flushed, and looked away uncomfortably, remembering that day, that moment – the snow, his fear for Anders, emerging from a cloud of wind-blown flakes to see the elf standing with a knife in hand, gesturing with the blade toward Anders. He'd attacked, of course. And then heard Anders' horrified shout even as his blade swept toward the other elf. He'd barely managed to twist his blade in time to hit the assassin with the flat rather than with the deadly edge. He shuddered, remembering the feel and sound of bones snapping at the impact as the elf flew sideways from the force of the blow...

"I was injured," Zevran said quietly, reaching out to lay his hand on Fenris' shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly. "Not mortally, but my left arm was broken, the shoulder joint damaged as well; I could not travel any further without some weeks of healing first. And so..." he sighed, and looked down at his plate, his hand dropping from Fenris's shoulder to rest on his own leg. His voice was unsteady when he continued. "She released me from my oath again. And this time, she forbade me to renew it. Then she left, headed somewhere into the west, with Nathaniel and Hawke." He looked up, meeting Alistair's eyes with a steady gaze. "I do not believe I will ever see her again. I believe _you_ will see her again; but not I."

Alistair said nothing, just put down his plate and tankard and rose to his feet, walking over to one of the windows and staring out of it. The dog followed him, whining a little, and leaned against his shins.

Fenris stayed silent, remembering what Zevran had mentioned to him once; that Soria and Alistair had been lovers during the blight. That they had parted afterwards, when he became King, so that he might marry and father an heir, but that the two still loved one another deeply. He could not imagine what the man must be feeling, hearing that she had left, vanished. He glanced at Zevran, swallowed thickly at the thought of how _he_ would feel if Zevran vanished from his own life.

After several minutes, Zevran spoke again, his voice very soft, barely louder than a whisper. "You _will_ see her again. If there is one thing in life I am sure of, it is that if she can return to you, once you are free – she will."

Alistair reached up, taking hold of a handful of the curtain. It seemed a casual movement, yet Fenris could see from where he sat that the man's knuckles were white with the force with which he was gripping the cloth, his entire body tense with some strong emotion. After a while Alistair drew a deep breath, then exhaled, head lowering, hand dropping back to his side. "I knew we had to stay parted, for now..." he said, his voice unsteady. "But I didn't think she'd _leave_. To not even see her, not even know if she's all right..." His voice broke, and he turned to look at Zevran, blinking rapidly. "What will I do?" he asked, voice breaking, then turned away again, burying his face in his hands.

Zevran rose, putting aside his own plate and cup, and walked over to him, reaching out to touch his arm. "What you have always done," he said, voice calm and steady again. "Go on."

Alistair turned blindly towards him, and Zevran pulled him down into a hug. It should have looked awkward, ridiculous even, the tall man bending down to cry on the shoulder of the much smaller elf, but it didn't. It brought a lump to Fenris' own throat instead; he looked away, giving them what privacy he could when there was nowhere else he could go.


	22. Documents and Diversions

"These are what has brought me here, most of all," Zevran said, drawing a small leather satchel out of one of his bags, and carrying it over to place on Alistair's desk. "These, and additional verbal information that both myself and my friend Fenris can supply."

Alistair frowned down at the satchel, then pulled it closer to him, turning it around and peering closely at the large wax seal that encased the ends of a ribbon wound through and tied around the clasp. "Starkhaven?" he asked, glancing up to Zevran for confirmation.

"Yes. Sealed by Prince Sebastian himself. There is a letter from him within, as well as copies of the documents in question. I made the copies myself; I have seen the originals, and know how they came into his possession."

Alistair nodded. Rather than breaking the seal, he opened a drawer of the desk, taking out a small sharp knife, and carefully cut through the ribbon just above the knot, quickly unwrapping it and placing the seal off to one side. He opened the flap, and eased out a thick oilskin-wrapped package. Zevran retrieved the empty satchel, putting it aside, and rested one hip on the corner of the desk, watching while Alistair folded back the oilskin.

"How many wrappings does this have?" Alistair asked in some amusement, when within the oilskin was revealed yet another wrapping, this one of cloth.

"Enough to keep it safe."

Alistair unfolded the cloth, revealing a stack of papers and a folded letter, tied with ribbon that was also wax-sealed with the mark of Starkhaven.

"Take a closer look at the cloth," Zevran said quietly.

Alistair held it up, then frowned, and looked questioningly at Zevran. "This is cut from a templar tabard," he said, and spread it out to one side, running his fingertips along the Sword of Mercy embroidered in silver-grey thread up the front of it.

"From one of the men who accompanied the man that some of the originals of these papers were found on. He was not wearing it; the men were wearing mis-matched armour, in disguise of common mercenaries. But all of them had such a tabard hidden among their gear."

Alistair gave him a sharp look, took a second brief look at the bit of cloth, then turned his attention back to the stack of documents in front of him. He started with the letter, again cutting the ribbon rather than breaking the seal, and read over its contents, his face set and expression intent. It seemed to Fenris hard to believe that this was the same man who'd been crying on Zevran's shoulder only a half hour before; now he seemed all business, only a faint red rimming to his eyes left as evidence of his earlier emotion.

Alistair refolded the letter and set it aside without comment, then skimmed over the first few pages in the stack. Abruptly he set the sheets back down, and looked up at Zevran. "Mair should see these."

Zevran nodded. "I will send someone to fetch her," he said, and hurried over to the door and out into the hallway. "You – carry word to Queen Mairead that King Alistair requests her immediate presence," he could be heard saying, then he came back in. Instead of resuming his seat on the corner of the desk, he moved to stand beside the chair where Fenris was sitting, his hands folded together behind his back.

Alistair was skimming over more of the documents, looking at random sheets within the stack, the frown on his face deepening. It was very quiet, and then there was a sound of approaching voices and footsteps outside.

"Wait here," a female voice said, and then the door opened and a woman stepped through. A tall women, her dark brown hair swept up on top of her head making her seem even taller, with dusky skin and dark brown eyes, wearing a loose robe of red brocade edged in gold-embroidered ribbons over a sheath of some satiny gold fabric. Alistair had risen to his feet as she entered, and the two took a few steps towards each other, the woman – Queen Mairead, Fenris assumed – holding out both her hands and Alistair taking them in his. He leaned over and gave her a welcoming kiss on one cheek, and she smiled up at him; though not too far up, being only a couple of inches in height shorter than he was. "You asked for me?" she said.

She had a lovely voice, Fenris found himself thinking. Then she turned to look towards Zevran and himself, and he joined Zevran in giving her a very deep obeisance. Zevran dropped down on one knee and lowered his head, one hand held over his heart as he bowed toward her. Without, Fenris was intrigued to notice, any of the fancy flourishes Zevran was inclined to use; a very formal bow.

"Bann Zevran!" she exclaimed, sounding very pleased. "I had heard a rumour you were returned again," she said, and held out one hand toward him. Zevran rose, closed the distance between them enough to take her hand, and went down on one knee again, bowing his head over her hand, almost but not quite touching his forehead to it. She smiled warmly down at him, and drew him back to his feet, then the two exchanged a kiss on each cheek, Zevran muttering something that made her smile. She looked curiously at Fenris, afterwards. "And this is?"

Zevran stepped back, holding out one hand to Fenris. "My friend, Lord Fenris of Brynhir, which is in Starkhaven," he said. "Fenris, allow me to present you to Queen Mairead Theirin." Fenris let Zevran assist him to his feet, though he did not actually need the help, and bowed deeply to the Queen.

She smiled briefly at him, nodding her head, then turned back to Alistair. "You asked for me, my lord?"

Alistair gave her a warmly affectionate smile. "Yes. Zevran has brought us some interesting documents from the north. I thought we should look at them together; I'll want your opinion on them," he said, and showed her over to the chair he'd been using.

Zevran quickly fetched a second chair, placing it where Alistair could sit and see the documents as well. He signalled for Fenris to sit again, then resumed his own perch on the corner of the desk. The Queen give him a brief, amused glance, then turned her attention to the stack of documents. She read them through silently, a faint frown creasing her brow at intervals, Alistair reading over her shoulder, his lips pressing together in a displeased line more than once.

She looked to Zevran when they were done. "We suspected Orlais was entertaining ambitions toward Ferelden again," she said, voice grim. "But this goes far beyond even our worst fears. This is no simple occupation they propose to begin; it is a campaign toward the domination and control of all Thedas, cloaked in religious trappings."

Zevran nodded. "I fear it is so," he agreed. "And clearly a campaign long in the planning; I suspect its roots began some time during the Occupation, if not earlier, and more recent events, such as Knight-Commander Meredith's control of Kirkwall through the Viscount, merely added detail to their long-range plans. We believe they have already begun their first steps towards implementing this plan; the approach made by Grand Cleric Odile to Prince Sebastian may have failed, but doubtless they will find a willing cat's-paw elsewhere. Also we'd had news that additional templars had arrived to reinforce Odile in Tantervale shortly before Fenris and I departed for the south. It is entirely possible that open war has already begun in the north in the time it has taken us to reach Ferelden."

Alistair frowned. "We've had word from agents of our own about a possible build-up of cavaliers in Orlais; not right at the border, in Jader, but to the west of there – at Halamshiral and Lydes. And there's been considerable ship movement to Val Chevin, which as their next eastern-most major port after Jader is worrisome, wrong side of the Waking Sea or not."

"At least we have the Frostback Mountains protecting much of our border with them," Mairead spoke up. "And very few passes though them, and all of them soon to be closed by approaching winter. Though what concerns me most at present is the Chantry's involvement in all this. You recall that report we were discussing last week, Alistair? I wonder if it might be related."

Zevran lifted an eyebrow. "And what report would this be?"

Alistair frowned, and opened a desk drawer, digging though it. "Sightings of Templars in odd locations, mostly to the west... we didn't think much of it at first, Templars are always moving around, rotating duty among the various village chantries and so on. Until we realized there had been sightings of them in areas that are largely uninhabited; mostly to the west of Lake Calenhad. There's a fair amount of settlement along the lake itself, and along the old Imperial highway that runs parallel to it, but there's also vast tracts of largely uninhabited forested mountainside there, with just an occasional outpost, and very few places large enough to possess an actual chantry. So reports of templars in that area tended to stand out a little, and once our attention had been drawn to it, we realized there were rather more templars moving around in Ferelden than there should be. And mostly moving toward the same area. That stretch between Redcliffe and Gherlen's Pass – you should remember it, Zevran, you ambushed us back in there."

Zevran sat up and leaned forward as Alistair placed a folder on the desk and opened it. "I remember the area well, yes – do you have a map of the reported sightings?"

Alistair glanced up from the folder. "Yes... here," he said, and extracted a sheet, sliding it across the desk to Zevran. The elf picked it up and studied it, frowning. Fenris peered over his shoulders; a rough map, with here and there numbers written down, and sometimes an arrow pointing away from the number.

"The arrows are what direction they were observed travelling in?" Zevran asked.

"Yes. And as you can see, they're almost always headed into the wilderness, rarely away from it."

Zevran nodded, and placed the sheet down on the desk, then tapped his finger against an area well west of the gigantic lake, up in the mountains. "Do you remember what we found here?"

Alistair frowned at the map for a moment, twisting his head to the side, then suddenly straightened up. "Of course! That village of heretics, and the old temple of..."

"...temple of Andraste," Zevran finished the sentence with him.

Fenris straightened up as well. "Isn't that where..." he started to say, then broke off. He looked to Zevran.

Zevran was biting his lip. "What I speak of next is a secret that must not go beyond this room," he finally said, voice very quiet and intense. "It puts many hundreds, possibly thousands of people at risk if it becomes known too early. I would prefer not to speak of it at all, but... I believe it connects. I must ask you both to not repeat what I tell you now; not to anyone. Preferably to not even speak of it between yourselves, for fear that someone may overhear."

Alistair and Mairead exchanged a look, then Alistair shrugged. "I trust your judgement," he said to Zevran. "But if it's that delicate a secret... give me a moment," he said, then rose and walked over to the door, leaning out and talking quietly to the guards and whomever was outside, after which he walked over to the windows, opening each in turn to lean out and look both up and down the wall outside before closing them again. There was considerable noise in the hall outside now, a constant murmur of voices. Zevran gave Alistair an enquiring look.

"I told everyone to withdraw at least ten paces down the hall to either side of the door, and then talk among themselves," Alistair said, grinning a little as he resumed his seat. "Might as well put my guards and Mairead's attendants to good use."

Zevran laughed. "A good thought," he said, then leaned forward. "And I will talk very quietly," he added, doing so.

The others all nodded, and pulled their chairs closer together, at least as much as they could with the desk there between them. Zevran glanced at Fenris for a moment, before turning back to the two royals, addressing his remarks to Alistair in particular.

"I told you earlier of Anders being in Starkhaven, which is what brought Soria's party there, and ended with my being left there. I did not mention that it was not the only time the mage was abducted; he was stolen away again this summer, by a group of templars led by a Seeker from Orlais."

"Seeker Reynard," Fenris spoke up. "Who had tried to abduct him the previous fall, and failed."

Zevran nodded, and continued. "Fenris and I and a group of Sebastian's guards gave chase, and managed to eventually catch up with them and recover the mage. All but two of the templars were killed, some by us, most as a result of their own carelessness with a blood mage they also had in their custody. It was from the Seeker's body that the majority of the originals of these documents were recovered; he was acting as a courier between the Divine and Grand Cleric Odile, in addition to his mission to abduct Anders." He paused, and drew a deep breath. "We had a surprise when detaining the two surviving templars; one was a mage."

Alistair's eyes widened. "A _mage_...!?"

"Yes, a mage. And a templar, and as skilled with a two-handed sword as Fenris is. It turned out that he and the other surviving templar were both members of a long-running conspiracy to free the templars from Chantry oversight, and return them to what is apparently their original role – the protection of individual free mages, rather than their incarceration and mistreatment as a group. During the course of our conversation, they happened to mention that members of their faction had been along on the Chantry expedition to relocate the lost temple we'd found, and there managed to recover additional evidence supporting their faction's belief that their role was not meant to be what it is today. Also evidence proving that the chantry has long-since broken the terms of the agreement under which the early templars submitted themselves to oversight by the Chantry and its Seekers. They plan to force a split between their faction and the Chantry some time soon; they hope within the coming year."

Alistair nodded slowly. "So, these templars that have been spotted moving toward where the temple is..."

Zevran shrugged. "What better place for them to use as a base of operations here in the south? Especially as the very name of their order derives from their ancient role as the temple's guardians. They seek to reclaim their history, as well as their historic purpose."

"We may have a certain degree of common cause with these renegade templars, then," Mairead pointed out, looking thoughtful. "Assuming that it is indeed their forces gathering there to use the temple as a base against Orlesian chantry ambitions, rather than Orlesian templars gathering there to use it as a base against _us_."

"We will have to determine which it is," Zevran agreed, then made a face. "Which, since of those of us who know exactly where the temple is located we only have myself, Alistair, and Oghren anywhere close to hand, I have a nasty suspicion is going to mean that the person travelling the width of Ferelden and back in the face of winter's onset to find out will be myself."

"A good thing we brought the horses," Fenris said, amused.

Zevran shuddered. "Riding there and back will only be somewhat less unpleasant than walking it."

Alistair was grinning now. "We can discuss such a contingency later, once we've decided if it's necessary or not," he said. "Tell me more about these, err... templar-mages."

"Just the one was a mage," Fenris corrected.

"Though it should be obvious why anyone who was made a templar and later discovered he or she was also a mage would want to join such an organization," Zevran added.

Alistair nodded. Zevran resumed talking, explaining what they'd learned from the pair about the templar underground, its history, and its goals.

Both Alistair and Mairead were looking very thoughtful when the conversation ended. "We will need to discuss this particular development more later," Mairead said, agreeing with Alistair's earlier words. "Of more importance will be sharing the information contained in these documents with selected members of our own nobility, and beginning quiet preparations for war in the spring."

"And hope that Orlais will not chance a winter war here in the south when they are already dealing with conflict in the north; they are still engaged with Nevarra as of last reports," Alistair said.

Zevran nodded. "I do not believe they will look toward Ferelden before the spring; a winter war would be very costly of lives, and while they are far larger than Ferelden and therefore have more force they could bring to bear in the matter, they will not want to waste the lives of trained soldiers when they have such ambitious plans throughout the north."

"In terms of keeping things quiet, we should try to avoid making any special point of calling in any of our nobles for immediate consultation; it is not long until the Satinalia celebrations will bring many of them to the city anyway. We can send quiet word to one or two who might not otherwise attend, and then under cover of the celebration hold a small meeting to present both this evidence and whatever plans for response we've drawn up between now and then," Alistair pointed out.

Zevran grinned and nodded approvingly at him. "That sounds like an excellent plan to avoid drawing attention," he said, then made a face. "Though I suppose it means that if a trip to the west does need to be made, it cannot start until after Satinalia."

Alistair shrugged. "You couldn't depart believably before then anyway; your reputation makes your attendance almost mandatory, doesn't it?"

Mairead hid a smile at his words. Zevran's eyes flicked to Fenris for a moment, an uneasy expression crossing his face. "I suppose it does," he agreed. "Now, since we've discussed all we profitably can at the moment... I note it that it is getting late in the day."

Alistair grinned. "And I am getting hungry, yes. Let's get this all locked safely away and then see about dinner. Informal, for tonight, as you two have only just arrived; we can have a more formal dinner tomorrow."


	23. Dinner with the Royals

Zevran led the way to his own rooms here in the castle, a suite not all that far from the royal apartments themselves.

"A mere bann such as myself would normally be expected to maintain his own townhouse somewhere in the noble quarter – assuming he can acquire such a property," Zevran explained as they walked along the hallway toward it. "But the bannorn of Blackmarsh had been empty since before the rebellion; whatever town property was once associated was long since passed on to some other holder. And I am only rarely in town, and a personal friend of the King, so he decided to take the rare step of allowing me rooms here."

There was a guard at the door to his rooms; Zevran greeted the man by name, with a pleased smile, and exchanged a few words with him, briefly introducing Fenris as "A friend, who will be staying with me" before leading the way inside.

"Staying in the castle has its benefits, such as the rooms being well-guarded," Zevran pointed out, once the door had closed behind them. They were in a small vestibule area, beautifully decorated, from which a pair of glass-paned doors opened out into a sizable sitting room, as richly decorated as the vestibule. Other doors led off of the larger room, as well as a short hallway. "These apartment were last inhabited by Prince Cailan, until he became King. It amuses Alistair to house me so royally, I think," he said, smiling faintly. "A bit of a jab at his more snobbish nobles. It is a mark of great favour to be allowed a room or two in the guest wing – a jealously guarded privilege, mostly reserved to the highest ranks of nobles – and here he has given me an entire sizable suite in the royal quarters themselves. Not that I am complaining, of course, as I quite like these rooms."

Fenris could understand why; they were quite large, and quite expensively furnished. He wondered, briefly, how much of the furnishings had come as part of the rooms, and how much were things that Zevran had procured for himself. He guessed that some of the smaller items, at least, must be things belonging to the assassin – he could see no other reason for objects such as a dagger with a snapped-off blade or a translucent white tooth longer than his hand to be on display.

Zevran gave him a brief tour of the suite; to either side of the sitting room were more double glass doors, the ones to the left leading into a small dining room, the ones to the right into a study. The short hallway had a door to either side and one at the end; a bedroom, a guest bedroom, and a large bathing chamber, all magnificently appointed, though the bathing chamber here had only a tub, no shower such as the room at Zevran's manor had possessed.

It was a relief to put down and unpack their things. The trip from Blackmarsh had been short enough that their clothing had not suffered much from being packed away. They hung up their clothing and picked out outfits to wear for dinner, then made use of the bathing chamber together, enjoying a little bit of soapy play in the bathtub before drying off and dressing again.

There was a little time left until they needed to return to the Royal apartments for dinner, so they sat down together to just relax and talk for a while.

"So... what do you think of Fereldan royalty, now that you've met them?" Zevran asked, smiling broadly.

"Your King seems rather more casual than Sebastian does," Fenris said. "Even allowing for the fact that you're a personal friend. I can't imagine Sebastian dressing and acting so, err..."

Zevran's grin widened. "We've seen your Prince Sebastian quite casually dressed out at that estate he likes so much. But yes, I know what you mean – even then, he has an air about him that makes it clear that he is someone special; not one of the common-folk. He was raised a Prince; I think it was not overly hard for him to make the mental change from being a penitent brother-in-the-Chantry to being ruler of all he surveyed. Alistair, on the other hand..." He paused, then shrugged. "At heart I think he will never stop being the unwanted stable-boy and orphaned templar-in-training that he was in his youth. Intellectually, he knows he rules this kingdom now, and he has a great love for all of this land, and the people in it. But I think some part of him will always secretly feel as if he is just play-acting the role. That it isn't quite real; that it's only by mistake that he is on the throne."

"He seemed to think quite highly of Queen Mairead's opinion," Fenris said.

Zevran nodded. "A very intelligent woman, and a good friend to both himself and Soria. In fact it was Soria that introduced the two of them. She'd met the woman while attending some event at Highever – Teyrn Fergus is at least nominally her superior in the hierarchy of the kingdom's nobles, though in practice she is directly responsible to the Crown. Anyway, Mairead is a cousin of his, and was there; she and Soria hit it off very well. Soria was very impressed by Mairead's wit and intelligence, and thought she and Alistair would likely be capable of being quite good friends with each other, so she machinated a meeting between the two. I have mentioned before that Soria is a remarkable woman, have I not?"

"To arrange a compatible wife for the man she loved? I would say so," Fenris agreed, eyebrows raising in surprise.

Zevran grinned. "Her love is astonishingly unselfish. She wished him to be happy, or at least content, during the years he must be on the throne, so she saw to it that he is."

"Is Queen Mairead from the Fereldan nobility herself? I'd have guessed her to be from the north, by her appearance."

"She is, though only just – she doesn't hold any title herself, being the youngest daughter from a cadet branch of the family. As I understand it her mother was the much-younger third wife of one of Fergus' great-uncles, who met and married her while taking refuge in Rivain during the later years of the occupation. He died some years after the Crown was restored; Mairead was his last child, and only about a year old when he died. She was visiting relatives in Rivain when Howe slaughtered the Couslands at Highever, or she too might have been killed."

Fenris nodded; he'd heard of the massacre at Highever even in Kirkwall. And the aftermath, where after Arl Howe had been slain by Soria Mahariel evidence was found that countered his assertion that the Cousland family were traitors to Ferelden, and conspiring with Orlais. King Alistair had returned the Terynir of Highever to Fergus Cousland, the only survivor of the immediate family, shortly after the Blight had ended.

"Well, we should be going to join them for dinner now," Zevran said, rising to his feet. "It being informal, there is a possibility the children will be there; if so, you can expect a torrent of questions from the eldest – he is at that age. Or at least he was when I was last here, and didn't seem likely to outgrow it any time soon."

Fenris snorted in amusement, and followed Zevran out of the room.

* * *

The children were indeed there; a pair of boys, almost alike enough to be thought twins, and only a year apart in age. They both had their mother's dark brown hair, and skin a warm tone somewhere between their parents' complexions. The older, Maric, had eyes almost the exact shade of Alistair's amber-brown, while the younger had eyes of a darker green-flecked brown.

Zevran grinned at them, and called them 'ser mischief and ser mayhem' before picking up first one and then the other, turning them upside-down, and shaking gently – to see what fell out of their pockets, he claimed, though what it mostly produced was peals of laughter from the boys. There was also a girl, still a toddler, who stood and stared at Zevran and Fenris for a long moment, eyes very large and one finger hooked in the corner of her mouth, then sudden smiled and cried out happily, before toddling over to throw her arms around Zevran's leg and grin happily up at him.

Zevran grinned back, lowered the second boy to the ground, then picked her up and hugged her. "Moira! So you finally remember your Uncle Zevran, do you?"

She nodded, then took her finger from her mouth long enough to jab her finger at the lines marking his cheek, narrowly missing his eye. "'Evran!" she exclaimed.

Zevran leaned out of range of her poking finger, then handed her over to Alistair, who'd hurried over to rescue him. "She's growing like a weed," he observed. "Doubtless in a year or two she will be even taller than I am."

Alistair grinned back at the elf. "Perhaps a bit longer than that, but I'd be surprised if any of them turned out much shorter than Mairead and I."

Zevran nodded in agreement.

The door to the room opened, letting in another person; a middle-aged woman, well-dressed, with blond hair caught up in two snail-braids at the back of her head, and pale blue eyes. Alistair smiled welcomingly at her, and Mairead hurried over to greet her, the two women clasping hands and kissing each other on the cheeks.

Zevran grinned and wandered their direction, then gave the woman an elaborate bow once Mairead had released her. "My dearest Anora, you are as delectable a treat for the eyes as always. Are you sure you won't reconsider my proposal and run away to the north with me? We could have such fun, and be the scandal of the bannorn."

Fenris was mildly surprised to realize who the woman must be; Teyrna Anora of Gwaren, Queen Dowager of Ferelden – the widow of King Cailan, and the daughter of Teryn Loghain Mac Tir.

Anora smiled at Zevran, clearly more amused than offended. "Bann Zevran, I had heard you were back. And with some news of interest?" she asked, one eyebrow raising enquiringly.

Zevran sighed theatrically. "You only care for me for my ability to ferret out intriguing gossip. I am heartbroken!"

"I think we can wait until later to discuss the news," Alistair said. "Once certain small sets of ears have gone off to bed."

Anora nodded, then smiled and walked over to take Moira from his arms, as the little girl was leaning precariously backwards with one hand stretched out toward her, hand opening and closing. Her smile turned into a very fond one as Moira threw her arms around Anora's neck and hugged her tightly.

"And who is this?" Anora asked, turning to look enquiringly at Fenris after greeting the girl.

"A friend of mine from Starkhaven – Lord Fenris of Byrnhir," Zevran supplied. "He is also a witness to the events that have brought me back home to Ferelden."

"Teryna Anora," Fenris said, bowing toward her with arms crossed over his chest. "A pleasure to meet you."

A bell rang, and Alistair smiled. "That will be our dinner," he said, and led the way to the dining room, or at least led as well as he could with two small boys charging ahead of him.

It was a small, cozy room, the table only big enough for perhaps ten or twelve people at most, currently set for eight. Alistair and Mairead sat at opposite ends of it, the three children on one side, with the two elves and Anora on the other, Zevran sitting down next to Alistair with Fenris beside him and then Anora next to Mairead.

"How are you enjoying Ferelden so far, Lord Fenris?" Anora enquired once their meal had been served.

"Well enough, though I have seen very little of it yet; only Blackmarsh, quite briefly, and the roads from there to here."

"Are you visiting for long?" Mairead asked.

"I don't know yet; I have some business I would like to take care of while I am here, and no particular need to be back in Starkhaven before the spring."

"He's looking for horses," Alistair spoke up, looking up from cutting up the food on his daughter's plate into manageable pieces. "You should see the wonderful stallion he rode in on!"

"You breed horses?" Anora asked, with obvious interest in her look and voice.

"I plan to. I'm currently looking for stock to establish a breeding herd; I have a few very good mares I've already acquired in the north, but I'd also like to breed in some of the hardiness of southern horses. Zevran has told me I'd likely find a good market here, and if I plan to sell to the south I should likely look at some of your local breeds for additional stock."

That started a lengthy conversation about horses. The Crown of Ferelden had some breeding farms for producing both riding and draft animals, mainly for the use of the army, much as the Crown of Starkhaven did, and Alistair kindly promised to provide him with an introduction there. The Teryna suggested that he should visit her teyrnir of Gwaren, if he had time to, though this was not the best time of year for it. She explained that they used horses as part of their lumbering industry, to haul logs, and their local draft breed was a popular cross for destrier lines that wanted greater strength and cold-hardiness.

"Their only real fault is that they're bred more for great strength and long, slow work than for carrying an armoured man at speed," Anora explained. "They can run, of course, but not for long. And their coat length can be a problem, as the breed has also been bred to have rather shaggy coats and quite heavily feathered legs for warmth, since they work well into the winter months."

"They're great furry beasts, she means," Alistair spoke up. "Lovely temperament though. There's a brewer I know of near the market who has a pair of them for his waggon, if you'd like to see an example of the breed short of travelling all the way south to Gwaren first. I can write you a letter of introduction to him too, if I can't find time to take you there myself."

"That would be greatly appreciated. Thank you," Fenris said.

"There are a couple of good destrier and draft breeds in the west, as well," Mairead said. "My cousin Fergus doesn't breed any of the destriers himself, but two or three of his banns do, as I recall. And in the western mountains there's also a small draft breed that's still used in some of the more remote areas; too remote for the Orlesians to have bothered to go in and try to wipe them out. But they're very small – only just barely large enough to qualify as a horse instead of a pony. Very hardy and sure-footed, however."

Zevran looked interested. "Perhaps it might be worth taking a look at them, even so. I believe I've heard of them; they're reputed to be very intelligent, and at least half mountain goat."

Mairead smiled and Anora looked amused. Fenris started to frown, thinking that seeking out such a small breed was likely to be a waste of time, and then remembered Zevran's earlier words about it likely being his mission to trek across Ferelden to contact the templars in those same mountains. Fenris' supposed interest in the breed might well provide a reasonably believable pretext for such a visit.

"Perhaps you're right," he agreed, and was rewarded with broad smiles from Alistair, Mairead and Zevran. Anora noticed their reaction and raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Eventually the meal was eaten, the dessert demolished, and the children collected to be taken back to the nursery. The adults retired to the sitting room, where both cold ale and warm wine waited. Alistair and Zevran took ale; Fenris joined the women in taking wine, and was very pleased with the quality of it. Though of course the King and Queen of Ferelden would only be served the best. He wondered if it was a local wine, or something imported.

"Now, what is this news that Mairead hinted at when she invited me to dinner?" Anora asked firmly, once they were all comfortably seated.


	24. Further Introductions

It took some time to bring Anora - who, he learned that evening, was also Chancellor of Ferelden among her other titles - up to date on the news that they had come here to deliver. It was quite late that evening before two elves were finally dismissed and able to return to Zevran's room, tired from their exceedingly long day of travel and talk, and with an equally long day likely the next day.****

They were both exhausted, but as they changed for bed Fenris found himself running his eyes appreciatively over Zevran. Zevran caught his eyes and grinned, raising an eyebrow inquiringly and striking a pose that rather flaunted his form and... well, Fenris found himself temporarily forgetting his tiredness, and stepping closer in order to kiss the smaller elf hungrily, fingers twining into his long hair.****

Zevran was smiling when they finally paused for breath. "A long morning in the saddle followed by endless boring meetings, and yet you still manage to be this energetic, even this late at night?" he asked, then gave Fenris a speculative look from half-lidded eyes. "What would you like to do with me right this moment?"****

Fenris shivered a little, head filling with images of all the things they _had _done together, since first becoming involved. Of things he'd only thought of doing yet, and not actually tried, spun out of some combination of Anders' long-ago explanations of the ways in which two men might bring pleasure to each other, and the less distasteful of the erotic dreams he'd had based on his own experiences back in Tevinter. His hands trembled slightly as he reached out to coil a strand of Zevran's hair about his forefinger, then tug lightly on it to urge him closer. "Many things," he said, voice husky, and kissed him again, more demandingly this time. Zevran made an approving sound, pressing himself up against Fenris. His interest was obvious, a pressure against Fenris' thigh that caused an answering tightening in Fenris' own parts.

Fenris was used to Zevran being the one taking the lead in their encounters; it felt strange to be the one initiating things instead. Strange, and exciting. He ran his hands up and down Zevran's back, pressing them closer together, and nipped at Zevran's bottom lip. The assassin made another appreciative sound, his own hands sliding slowly up Fenris' sides, fingers flexing against his skin.

Later he wasn't sure how much he'd really led, how much he might have been following subtle guidance from Zevran – subtle enough that it was only later that he even realized there had been any at all – but a short time later found the two of them naked together on the bed, their hands roaming as they explored each other's bodies. He loved the feel of Zevran's warm skin under his fingertips, and the feeling of Zevran's fingers exploring his own skin in turn as they slowly roused each other. Their writhing and wiggling led, eventually, to them lying down side by side, with heads and feet in opposite directions, hips canted to allow each other better access to sensitive flesh.

Fenris had used his mouth on Zevran before, of course; it was one of his warmest memories, of the two of them together in a warm stable, of the look of shocked surprise and then delighted pleasure on Zevran's face as Fenris had demonstrated that he, too, knew at least a little something about ways to bring pleasure to a man. It was something they'd done for each other many times since. But _this_ was something he hadn't experienced before; he supposed he should have realized it was possible, this dual sharing, but all of his earliest experiences had been with people who were only concerned about their own pleasure, not at all for his.

It made it even better, feeling Zevran's mouth moving on him, as his moved on Zevran. And a bit of a competition, somehow, each of them doing things with lips and tongue, throat and fingers, seeking to increase each other's enjoyment of what they did. There were times where Fenris had to stop, mouth gaping open as he cried out in pleasure at some thing Zevran had done, before remembering himself and trying to respond in kind. And, once or twice, times where Zevran paused for a moment to cry out, or moaned in enjoyment around the thickness of him, which was another pleasure to add to the many he was already feeling.

He felt obscurely pleased when it was Zevran who came first, shuddering and trembling as he held himself back from thrusting into Fenris' mouth, his salty seed pulsing warmly into Fenris' mouth. Fenris smiled, and relaxed his own control of himself, allowing himself to come at last as well. It felt good to just lie there afterwards, pleasantly exhausted now, as Zevran moved around so they could lie down together with their heads supported on the pillows, arms and legs tangled together.

"You are magnificent," Zevran said softly, eyes sparkling with good humour, and kissed him on the end of the nose.

Fenris smiled, pleased, and hugged the other elf briefly, then sighed tiredly, eyes already closing as the exhaustion of the long day finally caught up with him. He slept deeply, content to be there in Zevran's arms, in Zevran's bed.

The next day was indeed another long one. Zevran was already wet from the bath and wrapped in a large towel when he woke Fenris; As Fenris grumbled sleepily about being woken, the assassin leaned down to kiss him, scented water dripping off the ends of his hair to spatter on Fenris' bare skin.

"You had better hurry up and bathe as well," Zevran told him. "Or you might miss any opportunity to do so until much later today." He touched a finger to a droplet on Fenris' chest, drawing his finger lightly down, the droplet adhering to and following it, leaving a line of coolness on his skin. Fenris shivered at the feeling of it, back arching slightly, then growled and rolled out of bed, capturing the slighter elf long enough to kiss him thoroughly. Zevran laughed, and gave Fenris a pleased look before the warrior headed off to take a bath of his own.

By the time Fenris had washed, dried, and changed, there were good smells coming from the dining room. Zevran was already seated at the table there, investigating the contents of a large divided serving dish set handy to two place settings.

"You have impeccable timing; the food only just arrived," Zevran told him, smiling warmly at him. "Nice and hot. Come and make your selections."

The dish proved to be divided into four sections, each containing something else; fried ham steaks in one, peeled whole boiled eggs in the next, some sort of warm grain porridge in the third, and something bright yellow and smelling of saffron, seafood, and hot peppers in the fourth. Fenris took some of everything but that last. The grain porridge proved to be savoury with herbs and onions, and he filled up mostly on that and the ham while Zevran made great inroads on the yellow stuff and the eggs, both of them pleased with their selections. There was tea too, a big pot of it brewed dark and strong, with honey to sweeten it and, to Fenris' surprise, a small jug of cream which Zevran insisted he try, saying it changed the flavour entirely. It did, making the tea seem richer in the mouth and smoother to the stomach. He liked it, though he couldn't imagine it catching on in more northerly climes, where the milk would probably spoil before it reached the table unless you lived in the country and kept a cow or goats of your own. Or sheep; he'd heard sheep could be milked.

After breakfast they were back off down the hallway to the royal apartments. The King and Queen were still breakfasting, they were told, but they were expected, and a servant led the way to the office where they'd first sat with King Alistair the day before. They hadn't been there long when Teyrna Anora arrived as well. Zevran immediately bounced to his feet again, though instead of giving her one of his more flourish-embellished bows, as he had the night before, he gave her a very simple bow instead; one of genuine respect. "Teyrna Anora, it is always such a pleasure to see you again," he said.

She smiled, looking faintly amused. "And to see you again as well, Bann Zevran. Ser Landry will be joining us shortly as well; Alistair wishes him brought up to speed on the news you have brought about Orlesian ambitions and what is known of their plans."

"Of course," Zevran said, nodding in apparent agreement, then turned to Fenris for a moment. "Ser Landry is the General of the Ferelden Armies; he will of necessity be much-involved in whatever plans must be made."

Fenris nodded his understanding. Anora, he noted, was looking curiously at him again.

"While we wait, why don't you introduce your friend and I more properly?" Anora asked, taking a seat and looking inquiringly at Zevran.

"Of course," Zevran said again, smiling toothily, and resumed his own seat. "With your permission," he said to Fenris, who nodded, after which Zevran launched into a brief but informative description of Fenris' past, his place as one of the Champion of Kirkwall's companions, and how that had led to him knowing Sebastian Vael, and saving his life more than once after he'd become Prince Sebastian. It felt very odd to sit there and hear his past described so frankly, to hear events that had occupied days or months of his life cut down to a few succinct sentences, or skipped over entirely. He could feel himself colouring in self-conscious embarrassment before Zevran finally wound down.

Anora smiled warmly and nodded her head at him, afterwards. "It speaks well of you that your liege thinks so highly of you as to have named you a Lord of Starkhaven," she said, then smiled again at Zevran. "I suppose I should bid you to introduce me as thoroughly to Lord Fenris as you have now introduced him to me. If you haven't already."

"I have not," Zevran said, and smiled charmingly at her. "But I will spare your blushes and let most of it wait until he and I have some privacy to do so. Suffice to say that Teyrna Anora has the complete trust of not just King Alistair and Queen Mairead, but of Soria Mahariel and myself as well. And I am not one who trusts easily," he added, showing his teeth again.

Anora snorted. "Hardly. I well recall how bitter you were over the fact that I escaped from Howe's estate when Soria herself did not."

"I was quite wroth with you over it at first, yes," he agreed. "But Soria explained it all to me later, after Alistair and I had rescued her. She would have made a magnificent Crow – her nose for politics is even better than my own. Surprising, considering how little exposure she'd had to any before leaving the Dalish."

"Perhaps it's a case of someone on the outside of things being more able to see the dynamics that are occurring inside," Anora suggested.

"Perhaps. Or it might just be that, being new to politics, she paid so much more attention to all the details of it. She was certainly tossed in the deep end right after Ostagar, and had to learn to sink or swim very quickly."

"True," Anora agreed, then turned to Fenris. "Since Zevran is being too polite to delve into all the details of my past in front of me, then I will tell you at least the bare bones of it; I didn't trust Soria at first, nor she me. Perhaps if I had, I would have retained my throne; she was perfectly willing to allow me to remain Queen, though at the insistence of the nobles who were then in rebellion against the Crown, I would have had to marry Alistair to secure the throne," she explained, then sighed. "My father forced Soria's hand at the Landsmeet, insisting on a duel between himself and whatever champion she might name, to decide the outcome as to whether his side or Soria's side would command thereafter. Soria named Alistair to it; in the course of the fight he killed my father. I feel now, looking back, that he had little choice in the matter, but at the time... at the time I was overwrought. He was my father, and I loved him, and he had been killed by this man I was being asked to marry against any wish of mine. So I demanded that I be named as Queen in my own right. The nobles, unable to agree among themselves, foisted the decision off onto Soria. I knew, by then, of the relationship between Soria and Alistair, and thought she'd be pleased to have an excuse to prevent him from being made King after all, so I agreed to be bound by her decision."

"And she chose Alistair as King," Zevran said quietly.

"Yes," Anora agreed, flushing. "I had miscalculated; Soria valued honour and duty over her own personal happiness. It took me some time to admit that to myself; to become reconciled to her decision, and to realize that by reneging on the terms of our existing agreement, I'd given her no choice but to name Alistair as King and pass over me as Queen. She _had_ to have someone on the throne she could trust to stand by their word, and I had just proven to her that I was untrustworthy. It was my own actions that lost me my throne."

"Yet you are King Alistair's Chancellor now, are you not?" Fenris asked.

Anora smiled wryly, and nodded. "Yes. When the Blight ended, I was still Teyrna of Gwaren, and still the Dowager Queen, and I, too, believe very much in honour and duty. I sent Alistair letters, offering him whatever advice I could on the things he now had to deal with as King – telling him which nobles he could expect opposition from on what points, and why, and how to get around them. Dredging up old laws, things that had fallen out of use but were still on the books, under which he could demand that certain things be done in ways satisfactory to the Crown, rather than having to rely on the haphazard arrangements the nobles might have done if left to themselves."

She paused, and smiled again, a fond look on her face. "To my surprise Alistair not only listened to my advice, but came to value it; he began to write letters back, asking my opinions on specific matters, and then when I came to court for his marriage to Mairead, they both asked me to stay on in Denerim so that I might more directly advise him. So I did, apart from regular trips back to Gwaren to oversee my own lands. It was Soria herself who eventually suggested he name me as his Chancellor; by then we'd overcome our initial distrust and become friends. She considered me to be far more trustworthy than Arl Eamon, who held the office for the first two years of Alistair's reign, and had proven himself quite unsatisfactory in the position. Too given to partisan politics and valuing appearance over substance. And also given to holding grudges, not just against whomever initially earned his ire but even against their descendants; not a quality you wish for in one of the chief diplomats of the kingdom."

Fenris smiled crookedly and nodded, understanding her point quite well, having had a first-hand view of the sometimes rather literally cutthroat politics of Tevinter.

"We should tell him of Ser Landry too, since he is about to meet him," Zevran spoke up from where he was comfortably slouched in his chair.

Anora nodded. "I suppose we should," she agreed.

Zevran straightened up, turning to look at Fenris. "Before the Blight began, it was Anora's father, Teyrn Loghain, who was the General of the Fereldan Armies. After Ostagar, he had named himself Regent of Ferelden as well."

Fenris frowned. "Regent? But wasn't Anora the Queen?"

Anora sighed. "Yes and no. You see, I was Queen-Consort only; Cailan had never offered me the Crown Matrimonial. If we'd had children, or if I'd at least been with child when he died, I could have ruled as Regent for my children. But with his death without issue, I was merely Queen Dowager, and the succession was broken; the next-closest family to inherit would have been the Couslands, but at that time, as far as we knew, they'd all been wiped out by Howe or lost at Ostagar. Between the many deaths at Ostagar and the many noble lines lost during the Occupation, the succession was not clear; there were many possible candidates for the throne, all about equally valid."

"So your father named himself Regent illegally?" Fenris asked, fascinated.

"No," Zevran spoke up. "You see, when King Maric had left on progress five years previously, he'd made arrangements for Cailan to act as King while he was gone; it was only supposed to be a temporary thing, lasting perhaps a year while King Maric travelled abroad. In case anything happened to Cailan while he was away, he'd named Teryn Loghain to hold the throne as Regent until his return. And then he vanished when his ship sunk in a storm. While it is believed that King Maric perished, no body was ever recovered, so even though Cailan has ruled in his own name as King ever since shortly after Maric's presumed death, the papers still legally made Loghain the Regent when he himself died."

"It held the country together, or at least we thought it would," Anora spoke up again. "If my father had been born noble instead of a peasant, it might even have worked. But too many nobles saw it as a grab for power, not a chance for stability while the succession was worked out, and balked. And then rebelled, with us facing a darkspawn incursion in the south and possible attack from Orlais in the west. A civil war was just the thing we needed on top of that," she added, voice bitter.

"Anyway, getting back around to Ser Landry..." Zevran said.

"Yes. Ser Landry. After the Blight Alistair needed a new General; Soria had held the position during the Blight himself, but she stepped down from it as soon as the Archdemon had died. My father's logical successor – Ser Cauthrien, a well-trained and loyal soldier, and his right hand for years – had died as well by then, during the Battle of Denerim, and might not have been acceptable to the nobles even had she lived, due to her association with my father. Arl Eamon had put forward a few suggestions, but Alistair and Soria felt they were all too... well, too partisan. Selecting one of them would almost certainly alienate the loyalist factions, and tempers were still hot from the brief civil war. Then Bann Teagan suggested a name from among the loyalists; Ser Landry. He was of well-known loyalty to the Theirin line; he'd even challenged Soria to a duel when he first encountered her in Denerim, believing the Grey Wardens held some degree of blame in the deaths at Ostagar, and specifically attached blame to them in the case of Cailan's death. Soria managed to convince him otherwise, and thought well of him for both his honesty and his loyalty. So when Bann Teagan, whose opinions are well-trusted by both herself and Alistair, suggested him as a possible compromise candidate, they readily took up his idea. Ser Landry is a good man; he could have been ennobled himself as part of his rise within the army – he was born the sixth child of one of the more minor northern Banns, so has no title beyond Ser himself – but declared he'd rather not have his attention and duty divided between his soldiers and some specific small chunk of Ferelden."

"Easier to protect all equally if he owes none specially," Zevran interjected.

Anora smiled and nodded. "Exactly. And he's proven to be a quite capable holder of his office; not, perhaps, as naturally brilliant at tactics and strategy as some previous holders of the post have been, but he's well-aware of his deficiencies and is not afraid to delegate or to take advice. And he's proven to be very talented at organization; he's made some interesting changes to the way the army is controlled, for instance, which has greatly improved their performance and responsiveness in the field."

Zevran straightened up, looking interested. "His experiments worked out, then? He was just about to implement the first of his proposed changes when I was last here."

"They have," Anora said, then explained further. "He's implemented a system whereby he and each of his chief commanders in the field has a small staff of specially trained people working for them; they fill a number of roles, including such things as dealing with the more repetitive and trivial paperwork associated with running the various units of the army – keeping track of pay, for example, or ordering in and distributing supplies, and so on. They must follow a system of rules established by Ser Landry as to what records are kept, and the army will only pay certain set prices – fairly determined ones – for specific amounts of supplies and so forth, so no more haggling between a quartermaster and an individual farmer over the price of a shoat or a bushel of oats, and then the quartermaster claiming they paid more for it than the farmer ever actually saw, and pocketing the difference. It's even set out exactly what amounts of food and of what quality the soldiers are to receive daily, so if there's shortages that also needs to be adequately explained. That change alone has led to a substantial savings in how much money it costs to maintain our army. And led to a number of men losing their position, when they were found to be far more interested in lining their pockets than in feeding the soldiers properly."

There were sounds from the front hall just then, as the guards let in someone else, and none of them were surprised when the next person let into the room was of obvious military bearing, dressed in fine clothing but with a small gold gorget on a ribbon around his neck to denote his rank, and a well-used plain sword hanging at his side. An older man, his long hair fading from blond to silver, deep lines bracketing his eyes.

Zevran rose, smiling and bowing to the man, and Fenris quickly rose and bowed as well. Anora merely nodded her head in greeting, not bothering to rise. "Ser Landry," Zevran said. "A pleasure to meet you again."

"Bann Arainai," the man responded, a touch of frost in his voice. He glanced curiously at Fenris for a moment, a slight frown crossing his face, then turned back to the assassin. "I am told you have brought important information back from the north."

"I have," Zevran agreed. "Allow me to bring you up to date, while we wait on King Alistair. It will save time later." Ser Landry nodded, and took a seat. Zevran quickly explained the nature of the events that had brought them there - at least such parts as they were willing to speak more publicly about, nothing about sensitive information such as the Templar Underground - and describing the supporting documents they had brought copies of.

Ser Landry was looking concerned long before they were done. "This is infamous!" he exclaimed. "I am not surprised at the Orlesians having such goals, but to have embroiled the Chantry in their plans!"

"At this point I fear it may be more of a chicken-and-egg problem," Zevran pointed out. "At least, in Orlais there seems to be very little difference between the politics of the country and the politics of the chantry. They go rather hand-in-hand there, much more so than elsewhere."

Ser Landry frowned, then nodded reluctantly. "I fear you are correct, as much as I might wish otherwise."

King Alistair and Queen Mairead arrived just then; they spent the next several hours in discussing plans for how to quietly spread word of and prepare for the impending invasion, interrupted only by a very good lunch at which their discussion was curtailed due to the presence of servants, and turned instead of Zevran telling several anecdotes related to his recent travels, and a discussion of how good a harvest Ferelden had brought in that fall, which would be celebrated at the upcoming Satinalia festivals.


	25. Layers of Warmth

The time until the Satinalia ball passed quickly; the pair of them had several more meetings with Alistair and his advisers, which filled much of their time. Zevran also took Fenris out into the city several times, showing him the sights and taking him shopping. They needed costumes for the ball, he insisted, and dragged Fenris off to see a seamstress he knew, who threw up her hands and exclaimed there was not enough time, but gave in and agreed to see what she could do when Zevran piled gold coin after gold coin in a towering stack on her counter.

"You shouldn't have spent so much," Fenris muttered, flushed with embarrassment, as they left the shop afterwards.

"Of course I should have! What is money for, if not to spend it? And I wish both of us to look particularly fine at the ball. Now, come down this way, there is a lovely furrier's shop around the corner here where we can pick up some of the clothing you will need for winter travel," he said.

Fenris let the assassin help him in making selections. The furs were beautiful, he had to admit, and found himself torn between a thick coat of glossy black bear fur, and one of red fox furs that warmed him just to look at, the colours of it was so beautiful.

"Allow me," Zevran said to Fenris, and spoke rapidly to the shop owner, who disappeared into the back and re-appeared with another coat, of thick silvery-grey fur with black tips. "Also fox," Zevran explained. "And I will take the red fox myself, as it suits my colouring, and then you can admire it on me, yes?"

Fenris grinned. "All right," he agreed.

Zevran picked out boots for both of them as well, two pairs each; a thinner pair made of sheared sheep-skin, for when it was only somewhat cold, he explained, and a much heavier pair with a felted wool liner and covered on the outside in thick fur, for once the weather turned bitter. And gloves, as well, several different pairs that could be layered together depending on temperature; a thin suede glove, a thicker knitted wool glove, another pair of suede gloves loose enough to fit over top of the others, and then, for the worst weather, heavy leather gauntlets lined with more sheared sheepskin and cuffed with fur. The fingers of that final pair were shaped into a formless mitt instead of individual fingers, but the tip could be folded back to expose the gloved fingers inside, when finer manipulation needed to be done.

"Will all this really be necessary?" Fenris asked, moderately appalled.

"Yes, and more besides. Several layers of clothing under this as well. You will not believe just how cold a Ferelden winter can get until you find yourself trapped outside in one, and then you will be very glad of every bit of this," Zevran said, then lifted a hand. "Hats! We will also wish hats," he exclaimed to the shop-keeper. He selected them both knitted woollen caps and scarves, and fur hats with ear flaps that could be lowered and tied beneath the chin to protect the ears, or tied over top of the head to keep them out of the way.

The final selections made what seemed a quite immense pile on the counter, and this was just their outerwear. Fenris insisted on paying for his part of the pile, and Zevran acquiesced after only a little argument, and then arranged for it all to be delivered to the palace.

They went shopping for clothing next. "Layers," Zevran said firmly. "Layers are the secret. You will want something soft and comfortable next to the skin, something that will allow any moisture to escape but will not wick in moisture if part of it gets wet. A very finely knit wool is best; stockings, close-fitted leggings and a long-sleeved sweater. These will be expensive because of how long it takes to knit a garment out of such thinly spun wool," the elf explained.

"Then over that a layer of warmer clothing; heavier stockings, also of wool, and woolen leggings and a smock or tunic of tightly woven cotton or linen, and also a good thick sweater to wear over top of that on colder days. You will need an additional layer for your legs for windy or bitter weather; leather is best as it will keep in your body heat and keep out the wind; your coat will provide that protection for your upper body. Depending on the weather we will wear different combinations of the different layers, and in the coldest weather we will be wearing everything at once, and looking as bulky as bears."

The shop-keeper, a woman this time, grinned at Zevran's description. "He speaks truely," she said. "Enough layers even of rags will keep a person from freezing, so long as you can stay dry and out of the worst winds, as even the poorest in Ferelden can tell you. Though what I sell is far from rags," she added meaningfully.

"And priced accordingly, I am sure," Zevran said, grinning at the woman. "But better to spend gold now and be warm later, than pinch our silvers and coppers and freeze."

Zevran insisted on them both having several changes of both weights of stockings, feet being particularly prone to dampness, and dampness being dangerous in the cold, as well as a spare pair of each of the woolen leggings. The final pile of clothing was almost as sizable as the furs had been, and again Zevran arranged to have it all delivered to the palace.

They ate after that, in a fine inn on the edge of the market, Zevran being treated with a level of deference there that Fenris had never seen any elf receive in a public house before. Zevran grinned toothily after the barmaid had taken their order and left. "They've seen a lot of business from me over the years, and know I will tip well for excellent service," he explained quietly. "A reputation for a generous hand will often get one far better service than any high title will. Though the title does not hurt, of course. Nor my connection with the crown, and with Soria, both of which are well-known here."

The food was nothing particularly fancy, just a hearty mutton stew and fresh-baked bread, but it was all made out of good quality ingredients, and nicely seasoned, and the wine that accompanied it was excellent. By the end of the meal Fenris was in a good mood, their expenses of the morning notwithstanding. They spent a little additional time roaming the market after that, mostly just browsing at random rather than with any specific purchases in mind, though they each found a few odds and ends they wished to purchase; little luxuries they each particularly enjoyed, to satisfy Zevran's love of bathing and Fenris' sweet tooth.

Zevran eventually led the way out of the market and down side streets to the brewery Alistair had mentioned, the one with a pair of the Gwaren draft horses that Anora had spoken of. The brewer greeted them politely enough, and then became positively effusive after Fenris had given him the letter of introduction that King Alistair had written. He took the two of them to see his team himself.

They were compact, well-muscled horses with a dappled bay coat that Fenris thought was one of the most beautiful he'd ever seen, shading from a warm red-brown colour on the back and barrel to dark brown withers, shoulder, neck, and leg, with dapples of a lighter golden-brown colour marking their sides. Their legs were even more heavily feathered than he'd expected; not just down below the knee, but well up the legs almost to the barrel. It gave them a look rather as if they had cone-shaped fur leggings on. The rest of their body was rough-coated, like Zevran's Feo had looked like before being clipped, not the short glossy he'd become used to seeing on well-cared for horses.

"They're smaller than I expected," he said, surprised at how small they seemed in comparison to Ari's great size. Ari towered over him, his shoulder being higher than Fenris was tall, while these horses had shoulders more or less on a height with his own.

The brewer nodded his head. "The smaller size makes it easier for them to work in heavy forest, and also makes them better suited to the narrow streets I have to deal with here in the city. I keep them clipped shorter and well-groomed in summer to make a good showing here in the city, but down south they let them stay rough-coated year round. This pair is growing in their winter coats now; they'll be even shaggier by the time the really cold weather arrives."

The horses seemed to have a quite placid and friendly disposition, and made no attempts to nip, head-butt or kick as Fenris gave them as thorough an examination as he could manage in the confines of their stalls. After which the brewer invited them indoors to discuss the breed further over some of his beer, which proved to be of excellent quality. He was from Gwaren originally himself, and was able to answer most of Fenris' questions about the breed, as well as giving him the names of a few breeders to go see in the south if he decided he wanted to purchase some stock.

"So what did you think of the horses?" Zevran asked as they walked back to the palace afterwards.

"Very nice; I believe before we go back north I will have to find time to make a trip to Gwaren to purchase some stock. The cold-weather hardiness will be useful, and I very much admire their coat colour as well."

"Perhaps in the spring before we sail north again," Zevran agreed. "It is just as easy to depart from Gwaren as from the more northerly ports."

Fenris nodded in agreement. "When do you wish to set out for the west?" he asked.

"Not long after Satinalia; Alistair is regrettably right that my absenting myself from Denerim before then would be remarked upon. I have a, um... a bit of a reputation for enjoying the Satinalia balls. The main one of which at the palace we will certainly have to attend, but there will also be smaller celebrations both before and after which that I will be invited to attend. I can perhaps arrange invitations for you as well, if you'd like...?"

"No," Fenris hastily demurred. "I think the one at the palace will be more than enough for me. I am not a particularly social creature, as you've seen," he said, feeling somewhat embarrassed, as if it was a lack in him. "Dealing with one large party of people I don't know will be enough for me."

Zevran patted his arm comfortingly. "Do not worry; no one will think the less of you for only attending one party, especially when it is that one. Many others will be doing the same; I am just unusually social. Besides, the more parties I attend, the more chance I have of picking up on interesting gossip and so on. While I do usually enjoy attending them, they are as much work for me as pleasure."

Fenris nodded, feeling relieved.

"Anyway, to return to your question... a week or two afterwards, perhaps less if the pretext for our trip can be managed believably enough. I have had some ideas on that; do not be surprised if Alistair makes a bit of a show out of introducing you to someone from the west at the ball, someone who will spend some time in talking horses with you; the conversation and your interest in what he has to say about western horses will be meant to be overheard and gossiped about, so that when we depart later everyone will presume they already know the reason, yes?"

"All right," Fenris agreed, and found himself looking forward to it; frighteningly large piles of warm clothing aside, he wanted to be moving again, not sitting around waiting for things to happen. Though he was also sure from past experience that once things got too exciting he would be thinking wistfully of the boredom of sitting around and waiting.


	26. Worthy of Trust

"How do I look?" Zevran asked.

Fenris smiled. "Magnificent," he said, winning a pleased grin from the other elf. "What are you meant to be?"

Zevran shrugged, and smiled in amusement. "Nothing, really – an allegory for winter, perhaps," he said, and dusted with one hand at the white velvet leggings he was wearing with an equally white shirt of the same material. It had soft falls of pointed lace at wrists and throat, and was sewn with a scattering of tiny silver spangles from neck to hem, densest near the bottom, as were the leggings, which ended in low boots of white suede. His mask, a little domino of stiffened white suede, was also dusted with spangles. He'd done his hair in a different fashion than usual, caught back behind his ear in a multitude of braids on the left side, some with white satin ribbon or tufts of white down worked in, and hanging mostly loose on the right side, except for the forelock which was done in two long braids hanging straight down, each tipped with a large white feather. All the pristine white made his golden skin seem even darker than usual in contrast, his blond hair and gold eyes all the brighter.

Fenris frowned slightly, tilting his head a little to one side. "That will be hard to keep clean at a party," he pointed out.

Zevran shrugged again, and grinned. "It is really only meant to be worn once. And it is the effect at the beginning of the evening that is the most important," he said as he drew on a pair of white suede gloves, the cuffs edged in soft white fur. That done, he reached up to set one hand lightly to Fenris' cheek. "Do not wait up for me; it will likely not be until well after midnight before I return. And you must be well-rested for the ball tomorrow night."

"And you don't need to be?" Fenris asked dryly, before leaning down to kiss the other man.

"I will be rested enough," Zevran said lightly, after the kiss, and trailed the backs of his fingers along Fenris' chin and then down his neck. Fenris shivered at the slight drag of the soft suede against his skin, which drew another smile from the elf. "And I had better go, or I will be ruining this outfit before I am even out the door," Zevran said, giving Fenris a smouldering look before he turned and left.

Fenris sighed softly after the door had closed behind him. Perhaps he should have asked Zevran to obtain an invitation to tonight's party for him after all... but he disliked large social occasions, they made him tense, and he was already facing having to attend the Satinalia Ball here at the palace tomorrow night. That would be stressful enough on its own without bracketing it with the additional festivities that Zevran was attending. No; better a quiet evening in. Though not a quiet evening without entertainment, he decided, and went off in search of the palace library, in hopes of finding something interesting to read.

He was mildly startled, once he'd found the library, to find it already occupied; King Alistair was sprawled on a couch near the windows, absorbed in reading a book in the light of a large branch of candles on a small table nearby. He looked up, and smiled warmly when he saw who it was, sitting up and closing his book. "Good evening, Fenris."

"Good evening, your majesty. I'm sorry, I did not mean to interrupt..."

Alistair waved his hand dismissively, cutting him off. "You're not interrupting. And you don't have to call me 'your majesty' apart from on formal occasions; anyone that Zevran vouches for is welcome to call me by name."

Fenris smiled slightly and bowed. "All right. Thank you, Alistair."

Alistair flashed him a brief grin, and settled back more comfortably in his seat. "Not going out partying with Zevran this evening?" he asked curiously.

"No. I do not particularly enjoy large social gatherings; though I will of course be attending your party tomorrow night," he said, as he made his way over to a bookshelf and began examining titles, a little ill at ease at partially ignoring Alistair's presence, yet knowing that Alistair usually preferred to be treated as informally as possible. It made him miss Sebastian, whom he _was_ comfortable enough with to do so.

"Of course," Alistair said, and sighed. "One of the few social gathering I actually enjoy, really. You know, even after all these years on the throne I keep expecting someone to tap me on the arm and tell me they've made a mistake, and I should clear off the premises. It's especially bad when I'm having to act the part on formal occasions. But Satinalia... that's just fun," he said. "Though the best Satinalia celebrations I ever attended were when I was just a stable boy back in Redcliffe. The whole village would gather for it; everyone from the castle, too, which is why I was allowed to attend. Arl Eamon would donate a bull and a couple of sheep to be roasted for it, and all the villagers would make special dishes. The food was always so good; I was too young to care about things, like the dancing afterwards, of course," he said, a note of fond reminiscence in his voice. "Did you enjoy the Satinalia celebrations when you were a child?" he asked curiously.

"I don't know," Fenris said, and found himself moved to answer honestly. "I was a slave then; I don't believe slaves were allowed to participate, other than as servants or perhaps as part of the entertainment. And I remember very little of my childhood; almost nothing, before these marks were made in my skin."

"They're lyrium, aren't they?" Alistair asked.

Fenris turned to give him a surprised look; few people other than mages every recognized the marks for what they were; most thought them only some form of scarification or branding, until he lit up anyway. Yet Alistair was frowning thoughtfully at him, clearly having figured it out without ever having seen Fenris' more startling abilities.

"Yes. How did you guess? Most people don't, unless I tell them."

Alistair smiled crookedly. "Before I became a Grey Warden I was in training to be a Templar. I only ever had lyrium once – just enough so I could begin learning the templar abilities, not enough to addict me."

"Ah. You would recognize it fairly easily then."

"Yes, you can never really forget the feeling of lyrium nearby, after that. What is it for? I'm certain that can't have been done be for purely decorative reasons."

Fenris nodded, and pulled a large book off the shelf. "It gives me extra strength and stamina, a high resistance to magic... and the ability to do this," he said, then lit up and, holding the book up with one hand, reached through it with the other, wiggling his fingers at Alistair before withdrawing the hand again. He let the glow fade, and walked over to hand the book to Alistair, who was looking open-mouthed with astonishment.

"Maker! That was impressive!" Alistair stared at the book, turning it over and over in his hands, then riffling through the pages for a moment as if checking for some sign of how the trick had been done.

Fenris found a slight smile tugging at his lips. "Even more so when I chose to interact with the material I've reached into. Useful if I feel a sudden overwhelming desire to rip someone's heart from their chest."

That drew a grin to Alistair's face. "I can imagine it would," he said, and put the book aside. "So you're able to be selective about what you do or don't touch, when you're lit up like that? How does that work?"

Fenris shrugged. "I don't know. I just... decide what I want to do, and the brands work in accordance with my thoughts. My master used me as his bodyguard; my magic resistance and the fact that I didn't require a weapon to be dangerous suited him."

"Master?" Alistair said, sounding interested. "Wait... I suspect this is going to be a long conversation. Why don't you have a seat, and I'll send for some wine, and we can make a proper evening of this. Or no, I'm assuming things again – do you want to talk about this at all? Or would you rather just get a book and go, as was obviously your original plan?"

Fenris found himself smiling. Random curiosity usually bothered him, but somehow Alistair's open friendliness made it less off-putting. And that the man was a good friend of Zevran's, and that Zevran had spoken of Alistair as being a good man... well, he trusted Zevran's judgement. "All right," he agreed. "I don't mind talking about it with you, I suppose."

Alistair grinned. "Excellent. Would you prefer tea, or wine? Or there's always ale," he asked, rising and walking over to a bell-pull near the fireplace.

"Wine, by preference. Thank you."

Alistair gave a couple of yanks of the bell-pull, then returned to his seat, and waved for Fenris to seat himself as well. A servant came in as he was settling into a chair close to Alistair.

"Do you prefer red, or white?"

"Red."

"A bottle of red. And something to snack on, I think," Alistair instructed the servant, who bowed and hurried off again. "Sorry, where were we... ah, yes. You'd mentioned a master – I take it that's not just an extremely polite way of referring to a past employer?"

Fenris smiled grimly. "Indeed not. I grew up as a slave in Tevinter. The only monetary side to our relationship was whatever monies Danarius paid to my original owner in order to acquire me. I am told I actually competed in a gladiatorial event for the privilege of his ownership and these markings, though I have no memory of it."

"Andraste's sacred arse... _why!?_" Alistair asked, sounding appalled.

"There was also a boon involved. I used it to have my mother and sister freed; little good as it apparently did them," Fenris said. And found himself telling Alistair the whole story, over the next few hours; waking up in pain with no memories of his past, the years spent serving Danarius, the war on Seheron and being left behind. The Fog Warriors. Killing the Fog Warriors, under the lash of Danarius' blood magic. They were on their second bottle of wine by then, the tray of snacks – fruit, bread, crackers, cheese, and cold meats – already demolished. Alistair swore, and summoned the servant to fetch a third bottle.

"Better make it tea," Fenris said. "Or we'll regret it in the morning."

Alistair nodded agreement. "Right. Tea. And more snacks," he added, gesturing for the servant to remove the tray, littered with apple and pear cores, a curl of cheese rind, and a scattering of crumbs.

It was after midnight by the time Fenris had finished. Alistair, he'd realized, was a very good listener; surprisingly good, asking just enough questions to keep the conversation going, and otherwise merely listening intently. It helped that he let his emotions show so very clearly on his face while listening; his honest interest was apparent, as was his anger on Fenris' behalf, his distress, his sympathy... but no pity, Fenris was relieved to see. And smiles, several times, at the happier parts. Amusement, when the long tale deserved it. Thoughtfulness.

"Thank you," Alistair said when he was done, and then smiled warmly. "It's rare that I get to know one of Zevran's friends so well. But then it's also rare that he actually brings one into my presence; almost unheard of, in fact. He obviously thinks highly of you."

Fenris flushed. "I think highly of him, as well."

"He trusts you," Alistair said softly, leaning forward to set his long-empty cup down on the tray between them. "Which is very rare. Given his background... he is not a very trusting sort. That he trusts you enough to bring you _here_, to give you free access to his rooms here in the castle, to introduce you to me, that all tells me much about just how highly he thinks of you."

Fenris shifted uncomfortably, flush deepening. "I trust him equally deeply," he said, unable to think of anything else to say.

Alistair smiled crookedly, looking faintly amused. "As do I. Not that I did at first; he'd just been attempting to kill Soria and myself, after all. I distrusted him for the first couple of months he travelled with us, while I think Soria trusted him from the moment he woke up. I never knew why she did; but she's better at reading people than I am. But I'm not entirely thick-skulled; around about the third or fourth time he saved one or the other of us from horrible death I realized that maybe she'd been right to spare him, after all," he said, and grinned.

Fenris snorted, finding his own lips twitch in a slight smile. "And now you trust him."

"Yes. With my life, with my honour, with anything he asked for. So since he's the one that has brought you here and introduced you to me, I trust you by extension. Not as much, of course – I have yet to see you in action, after all – but at least provisionally, trusting _his_ judgement of you as being someone trustworthy and worth knowing."

Fenris flushed again, knowing he was being complimented and being uncomfortable with it. And challenged, too – challenged to proved himself worthy of Zevran's trust. "I would never knowingly fail him," he said softly.

Alistair's smile broadened. "And neither would I. Which may sound reversed from what it should be, but... his trust in me means I have to be worthy of him too. There was a time, early in my reign, when that was very important to me. That I had his trust, and Soria's, among others; that these two people whose opinions had come to mean so much to me both believed I had it in me to be the king that Ferelden needed. Not a figurehead for Soria, or a puppet for Eamon, or a placeholder until my own child comes of age, but a _king_. It has not been easy; very little in my life has been. But I have learned to put aside self-doubt, and judge myself by the people who trust me. I think that's a better benchmark to use than anything I could come up with for myself; whether or not I've met the expectations of those whose judgement I trust better than my own."

Fenris found himself smiling now, thinking of Sebastian, Hawke, Varric... "I think that's a good yardstick to use," he agreed. "At least some of the time. You wouldn't want to judge yourself by the opinion of someone who proved to be untrustworthy; nor would you want to become a weathercock, turning to the winds of other's opinions without thought for your own."

Alistair grinned again, looking very pleased. "Yes. It is a balancing act; in the end all decisions I make must be _mine_, and ones I am willing to defend. Which some times has meant having to disappoint people whose opinions matter to me, but I cannot be all things to all people. Being king does not mean getting to snap my fingers and instantly reorder the world in the way I want it to be; it means doing what I can do to guide it in that direction, over time, and sometimes with painful compromise now in order to work toward greater gains later."

Fenris nodded. "Sebastian has spoken to me once or twice about the difference between rulers who see ruling as a right, and those who see it as a responsibility. He strives to be one of the latter, and thinks poorly of the former."

Alistair nodded. "A man after my own heart; I shall look forward to opening correspondence with Prince Sebastian, now that the two of you have carried his letter to me. But now it is very late, and we're likely to have a long night tomorrow as well – later today, in fact – so I suppose we should retire. I have enjoyed our talk; thank you for trusting me with your past."

"Thank you for listening," Fenris said, rising to his own feet as Alistair did. "It is rare that I find someone I trust enough to share it with, but Zevran's trust in you also leads me to trust you."

Alistair grinned. "Good. I hope we both prove worthy of his trust," he said, nodded his head, and left.

Fenris let out a deep breath, relieved to have got through the evening without incident, then returned to Zevran's rooms. The elf was not back yet, but then he'd indicated he wouldn't be. Fenris changed, and went to bed alone.

Some time before dawn – though not much before, the windows were that dark grey of no-longer-quite-night that meant actual dawn was not all that far off – he woke briefly as Zevran crawled into bed with him. He sighed in contentment as he wrapped himself around the smaller elf, smiling as he breathed in the freshly-washed scent of his hair, and returned to sleep.


	27. Satinalia Ball

He had only seen Zevran acting this formally once before, that he could recall; when Sebastian had thrown the welcoming party for Grand Cleric Odile, and Zevran had first revealed to them that he was a Bann of Ferelden. His costume tonight was completely unlike the regalia he'd worn for that event, however, and also completely unlike the outfit of white and silver he'd worn the night before.

Tonight, Zevran was dressed in furs; not heavy furs like the winter clothing they had bought, but a outfit made of rough-edged strips of leather and a number of small cured animal pelts, tied and wrapped around him in a way that left much of him bare. He wore rows and rows of necklaces made of hundreds of hand-carved wooden beads strung on thongs, and his hair was caught back in a mass of thin braids with long pins that were carved out of bone, the ends in the shape of animal heads, with tiny black beads for eyes – jet, or obsidian, Fenris thought. His eyes were outlined in black, like those of a wild cat, and he wore a bracelet hung with long, curved claws on either wrist, claws long enough to drape from wrist to knuckles but no wider than his smallest finger. He looked utterly barbaric; he looked splendid.

Fenris' own costume was nothing like it, being an asymmetrical creation of tightly-fitted leather instead, made of dozens of leaves each individually cut from leather, tooled with patterns of veins and hand-painted to look like autumn leaves, then fastened in a swirling curve to leggings and a close-fitting long-sleeved shirt, both of sueded leather almost the same shade as his own skin. The overall effect was vaguely obscene, he couldn't held thinking, as if he was nude apart from the leaves, and yet he was in truth far more covered by his costume than Zevran was by his own.

"There is a headdress to wear with that as well," Zevran said. "It will give you further anonymity, if you wish it. And such, of course, is the tradition for this night," he pointed out.

"Your own costume hardly disguises who _you_ are," Fenris pointed out.

"No, it does not," Zevran agreed, and smiled toothily. "But I am expected to be very visible tonight; an outrageously revealing costume is part of _my_ tradition for this night. But come, try the headdress on," he said, and took a cloth-wrapped bundle down off of a shelf, carefully folding the wrappings back to reveal it.

It looked like a mask carved out of wood, aged to grey and seamed with cracks, but proved to be thin, stiffened leather, as carefully tooled and painted as the leaves. Two long, delicate horns curved back from the mask, with tines branching up and out from them. There was a close-fitting cap of soft knitted material as well, the same light brown shade as the suede, which Zevran picked up first. "Here, this first of all," he said. "It will contain your hair; that you are an elf will still be obvious from your ears, of course, but it will make you at least marginally less recognizable as to which elf you are."

Fenris nodded, and leaned down enough to allow Zevran to fit it onto him. It covered his head like a bag from nap of neck forward over the top of his ears and along his hairline, a ribbon in the hem of it serving to fasten it on snugly enough that it would not fall off. Zevran spent a little time in carefully tucking in any loose wisps of hair before tying it off, then smiled and gave him a quick kiss. "You look quite different already, with the white hair hidden," he said, then picked up the next part of the headdress, an irregularly shaped drape of deerskin, cured with the hair still on. Part of it had been shaped with a few discrete seams to fit neatly over the top of his head, the cupped shape of it holding it in place, most of it hanging down behind his ears and then draping forward across his shoulders. A section of the skin hung down in front of each ear as well, hiding where a strip of cloth fastened under his chin to stabilize it. The mask then attached to the front of the piece of hide with hidden ties, the horns resting on the curve of his skull like a crown.

Zevran's wide grin told him how much the other elf liked the look of the complete outfit on him. "The one fault with that mask is it hides your lower face as well, so I am unable to kiss you. Or at least, to kiss you there," he said, then lifted Fenris' hand and kissed his fingers, teeth nibbling ticklishly at his knuckles for a moment. Fenris shivered at the sensation, and lifted his other hand to caress Zevran's cheek for a moment.

Zevran smiled. "I will hope you are in such a good mood after the ball as well," he said, voice low and husky, and gave Fenris' hand a final nip before releasing it. "Come, it is time for us to go downstairs and join the festivities."

He could hear the noise from the ballroom long before they reached the doors of it; mostly the sounds of hundreds of people all talking at the same time, and the sounds of the music occasionally rising over it. They must have arrived late, Fenris thought, seeing how densely packed the room was, and then was sure of it when Zevran paused for a moment at the top of the stairs, standing as if posed for half a minute before continuing down. There had been no acknowledgement of their entry, no pause or hush or increase in noise, certainly no announcement – it was not, it seemed, the sort of ball where people's names were announced as they entered – but as they proceeded down Fenris was aware of swirls of movement in the crowd as a number of people converged toward the foot of the stairs, discretely enough that he would not have picked them out apart from his training as a bodyguard. He tensed, but Zevran murmured a word of reassurance; this was expected, apparently, and he guessed it must be connected to Zevran's posing and lack of any real disguise in his costume.

The first to greet them, a foot or two away from the base of the stairs, was a voluptuous woman, all but spilling out of her tightly-fitting gown. It was a riot of gem-shaded colours, edged in black lace. But the costume paled next to her hair, which rose in a froth of platinum blond curls and braids, seemingly shaped over some sort of padded wire foundation to give it extra volume; certainly that could not all be her own hair. Zevran and the woman exchanged a few words, a kiss to the hand – without any nibbling, just a single dry peck – and then the woman departed again, disappearing into the crowd, only her hair making her progress through it at all visible.

Much of the first hour of the ball seemed to be variations on a theme, encounters all much the same as that first greeting – someone appearing, talking briefly to Zevran, and departing again, occasionally with Fenris being introduced, but never by name; simply as "my friend". A few times Zevran talked at some length with whomever had stopped him, always smiling charmingly, and laughing at their jokes. A few admired his costume, and made guesses as to what it was supposed to represent.

He noticed that Zevran's answer as to what his costume represented varied each time he answered it; a Chasind shaman, a Avvar warrior, a remote tribe of Dalish in the mountains of Rivain. The cold-land barbarians that lived even beyond where the Chasind did, in the uttermost south where the summers were almost non-existent and the sun disappeared entirely in mid-winter, leaving only darkness, stars, and bitter cold.

Some of the people that Zevran stopped to talk with got a little handsy in their admiration of the elf's costume, but Zevran seemed to expect that, and only once did he gently fend off such an attempt. It left Fenris feeling a little confused; he didn't like seeing others touching Zevran, and he felt uncomfortable about not liking it when the parties involved on both sides seemed to expect it. Once or twice Zevran even got a little handsy back, and that was somehow worse.

Only once did someone attempt to touch Fenris as well, and Zevran interposed an arm before Fenris even realized what was happening. "No. My friend prefers not to be handled," Zevran said, just the slightest hint of frost in his voice.

The man – at least, Fenris thought it was a man, it was hard to tell with the elaborate and heavily padded costume the person was wearing – bowed deeply. "My apologies," he said, voice muffled by the mask he wore, then continued his conversation with Zevran for another few minutes before finally departing.

Zevran led him aside after that, out of the main room and into a smaller side room; there was only a handful of people there, sitting in ones and twos on a scattering of seats, most drinking; sipping tea, he was surprised to notice, not any stronger beverage, as Zevran led the way to a padded bench in one corner of the room and took a seat, gesturing for him to sit as well.

"There are side rooms where the party continues, and then there are a few like this, where one may rest from it before diving back into the fray," Zevran said quietly, and signalled a servant, who disappeared through a door and then returned with a tray bearing a pair of cups, a small plate of pastries, and a steaming pot, which he set down on a table within reach of them. Zevran helped Fenris remove his mask so that he could eat and drink as well.

"You are not enjoying the party very much yourself," Zevran observed.

Fenris flushed. "No. Too many people and too much noise, and I don't know anyone."

"Would you like to return to our rooms?" Zevran asked gently.

That warmed him; that Zevran said _our_ when they were his rooms. His flush deepened, and he looked away. "No; I would like to try further before I give up. I feel like I should be able to relax enough to enjoy this, it is just..."

Zevran smiled, and reached over to take his hand, which flustered Fenris further; they usually avoided any show of affection in public, and he was very aware that, as comparatively empty as this room was, they were not alone. "It is just that you feel very alone here, and you are not used to seeing others touch me, nor me touch others, yes?"

Fenris blushed. "Yes," he agreed unhappily.

Zevran smiled warmly, and lifted his hand, brushing a kiss over the back of it, which made Fenris feel even more uncomfortably self-conscious. "Remind me to give you an extra-special reward when we are back in our rooms tonight, yes?"

That made Fenris flush even darker. Zevran grinned, then patted his hand before releasing it. "I cannot promise not to touch others in front of you, nor allow them to touch me; I have many close friends here tonight, and they would not understand why I rebuffed them so. I wish to hurt them no more than I wish to hurt you. If you would prefer, we could leave the party early, though there are a few people I _must _see before departing. Shall we do that?"

Fenris considered, chewing nervously on his lower lip, then abruptly shook his head. "No. It is senseless for me to feel jealous over something like this. I will get used to it."

Zevran beamed at him. "A _very_ extra-special reward," he said, and leaned over to kiss Fenris on the cheek. "And now I am embarrassing you, am I not? Come... why don't you stay in here a while, have some more tea and cakes, give yourself a break from the noise and crowds in the main room. When you are ready, come find me. Or would you prefer to come with me now?"

"I will rest here a little," Fenris decided. "You're right... a break from the main party will help considerably."

"Good. I will watch for you in a little while then. And if you change your mind and decide to go back to our room instead, just ask any of the servants to bring me word, so I will not be worried about being unable to find you, yes?"

"Yes," Fenris said. Zevran rose, stooping down to kiss him again – on the lips this time, which made his blush return – and then swept out of the room. Fenris poured himself some more tea from the pot, and picked up a pastry to nibble on, relieved to feel his tension gradually ebbing away as he finally began to relax again.


	28. The Unmasking

Fenris wandered the party, surprised to find himself enjoying it more now that he was just another anonymous masked figure in the crowd, unknown, and knowing no one. He was still made at least a little uneasy by the crowded, noisy conditions, but without the distraction of watching Zevran interacting with others, he could just admire the costumes, and enjoy the music.

He was keeping an eye out for Zevran, but was not making any particular effort to find him; not yet, not when he was certain that watching the other elf interacting closely with so many others would only make him tense again. And he was unhappy about that particular knowledge of himself; he'd been very lucky to have Zevran largely to himself during their time in Starkhaven, and now that Zevran was back among friends... well, he disliked that he was _jealous_ at the idea of Zevran having other friends than himself. Some of whom, he was certain, must be ex-lovers of the elf; the contents of Zevran's bedroom at his manor in Blackwater had made it clear that the elf was used to sharing his bed. So he wrestled with himself as he wandered the room, unhappy about the direction of his thoughts. And both wishing for and dreading relocating Zevran.

He became distracted by the costumes, after a while, staring in fascination at some of the more outrageous or beautiful ones. Some, like Zevran's outfit, were designed to reveal and titillate, but most were meant to conceal and hide, while a few were only token attempts at costume, their wearers' features hidden by only the most minimal of masks. Many were costumes of people, some of which he could guess – the Black Fox, for example, and Aveline the Knight – and others of which he failed to recognize at all, likely based on figures from more local history. He admired myriads of animal-based costumes as well – a great brown bear, a white swan, a golden eagle, a stag, another raptor he couldn't name, owls, foxes, wolves, dogs, a bull with a spread of horns that reached as wide as outstretched arms would have. A halla, too, intricate curves of what looked like real halla horn rising from a froth of white-gold hair. There was a handful of more mythical creatures as well, including what must be a griffon, he supposed by its furred body and beaked, feathered head. A dragon, dancing with what he thought was a half-naked elf at first, though on drawing closer he saw the ears were clever fakes. A werewolf, its gloved hands tipped with sharp black claws.

There were a few disturbing costumes as well; some tall man dressed like a hurlock; elsewhere another person dressed in rags, their skin marked with paints to mimic the effects of blight. He turned away, repulsed, only to spot a nightmare of his own nearby; someone dressed as a Tevinter magister, in senatorial robes with oiled beard and hair, their saturnine face covered by only the smallest of domino masks, pale eyes glinting. He shivered, suddenly hating being trapped in the noisy crowd, and turned again, pushing his way toward the nearest door he could find. Closed, but unlocked, and the long hallway it let onto was darkened, lit only by the moonlight streaming in a row of deep window embrasures. He hurried down the hallway, feeling oddly unsettled, even frightened, and only came to a stop when he reached another door, this one locked.

He leaned his head against the cool smooth wood, struggling to regain his composure again. To be so upset just by a costume... _pfagh!_

It took several minutes for the shakiness to pass. He finally straightened and started back down the long hallway, then stopped, really not wanting to return to the crowded ballroom just yet. He would rest a while longer, he decided, and then leave the ball; if he didn't see Zevran on his way out, he would do as the elf had suggested earlier, and ask a servant to bring him word that he'd decided to retire early after all. For now he moved to the side, into one of the window embrasures, where there proved to be a scattering of pillows on the broad stone sill. He made himself comfortable there, leaning against the glass and looking out into the gardens, lit off to one side where the ball spilled out to an exterior terrace, but mostly dark and still.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been there when he heard the sound of the door at the other end of the hallway opening, briefly letting in the sounds of the ball before it closed again. A scuff of feet against floor, a soft thump and swish, then someone laughed softly. He froze, recognizing the laugh.

"You are a very naughty man. Truly, I have no time for this," Zevran chided.

Someone else laughed, a low chuckle. "Yet you came in here with me anyway. Come, surely you can spare just a little time for an old friend? I haven't seen you since last Satinalia."

Another laugh from Zevran, breathless, and then the unmistakable sound of a long, deep kiss. Fenris sat frozen, listening.

"I have a friend," Zevran began.

"You have many friends," the other man interrupted. "Including me. Or do you mean to tell me that's changed?"

A gasp; a soft moan. "I am _here_ with a friend, tonight, is what I am trying to say," Zevran said, voice rough and a little breathless. "He means very much to me. And as much as I have always enjoyed our little encounters, right now would be a bad time for one. He would not understand."

A silence, and then a disappointed sigh. "Tomorrow night, then? Or are you planning to bypass your usual festivities entirely, and spend the night with this too-innocent friend of yours?" Another pause. Another sudden gasp from Zevran.

"Damn you. All right, tomorrow night, but only if you promise not to mark me. You are staying with Melisande again this year?"

"Of course. I will await your company tomorrow night then," the man said, his voice a low purr of satisfaction. Another kiss; another needy moan from Zevran, which seemed to go right to Fenris' cock. The door opened and closed again; silence returned.

He sat where he was for some little while, shocked and upset. And yet, oddly, considering his feelings on seeing Zevran being touched by others, the jealousy he had felt earlier seemed entirely gone. He wasn't sure just what he was feeling at the moment. Finally he rose, and returned to the ball room. He ignored the crowds and the noise, making his way across the room to the staircase they'd earlier entered by, and left, only barely remembering to stop long enough to ask a servant to let Zevran know he'd already left for their rooms.

"Tell him I said there was no reason for him to leave early," he said. "I'm tired and plan to go directly to bed."

The servant nodded and hurried off to deliver the message. Fenris made his way back upstairs. He changed out of his costume, carefully putting the beautiful outfit aside, then drew on his nightshirt. As he curled up in bed he suddenly remembered Zevran's return the night before; the scent of his freshly washed hair. And wondered what Zevran had been doing, that he'd felt a need to bathe in the middle of the night, before joining Fenris in bed.

The numbness shattered, leaving only desolation behind.


	29. This Fragile Thing

Zevran was there when he woke the next morning, already awake and busy dressing. "I was going to let you sleep in," Zevran said, walking over and leaning down to brush a kiss against his cheek. "I will be in meetings much of the day, and then I have another party to attend tonight. Do you mind?"

"No, it's fine," Fenris said, managing somehow to keep his voice calm and even, and watched as the elf hastily finished dressing and hurried off. He'd known about the meetings, of course; Zevran would be spending the day with Alistair and Mairead, while they brought a carefully selected group of the nobles of Ferelden up to speed on developments abroad, especially the word of impending invasion that Zevran and Fenris had brought evidence of. As a Bann of Ferelden, Zevran had a place in such meetings. Fenris, as a foreigner, did not.

He had to admit he was relieved. He was still feeling deeply unhappy over events of the night before, and was just as glad to have a day away from Zevran's company in order to think things through, now that his initial storm of emotion had subsided somewhat. He tossed and turned in the bed, briefly napping again once or twice, but mostly replaying the scene from last night over and over again in his head; the innuendo in the words Zevran and the unseen stranger had said to each other. Zevran's agreement to meet the stranger somewhere tonight, evidently for sex. The _needy_ sounds Zevran had made.

The biggest part of his unhappiness, Fenris eventually decided, wasn't that Zevran was sleeping with someone else. The part that hurt the most was the fear that he meant much less to the other elf than Zevran meant to him. The fear that he might lose him, after all that the slight blond elf had come to represent to him.

They had spoken very little about their relationship, in their time together. And yet... he remembered how tightly they'd clung to each other, after the Crows had narrowly missed killing Zevran in Starkhaven, the feeling of Zevran trembling in his arms, head pressed into the curve of his neck. How the assassin had said that he'd been terrified of seeing Fenris killed before his eyes. Surely that meant that he truly cared about Fenris.

That thought brought back another memory; of their discussion after Zevran's old master had surprised them, on a hilltop near Starkhaven. Zevran had spoke of having had many lovers before; how many had just been good friends, some of them enemies or targets, with only a few being people that he cared for.

And that Fenris was one he cared for.

A knot in his chest eased a little at the memory. He had to believe that it had not just been empty words the other elf had said; that it was not merely something said to reassure him, but something that was said because it was _meant_.

With that thought he was finally able to get himself out of bed, to wash and dress and send off for food, shocked to see by the angle of light through the windows that is was already early afternoon, the morning having disappeared while he wrestled with his thoughts. As he sat down and ate he found himself missing the early-morning rides that had become such a part of his usual routine back in Starkhaven. He found himself yearning to be back there, and was startled to realize that there was a name for the feeling he had; homesickness. Something he couldn't ever remember experiencing before. But then he hadn't had a real home before either, not in any real sense of the word; just places he lived.

He couldn't go riding, or at least he didn't feel confident enough in this strange place to attempt doing so on his own, but he could find his way to the stables, and visit for a while with his and Zevran's horses. They were all clearly being very well cared for, though all of them were starting to look rather rough-coated; with Zevran and Fenris planning to travel in winter, their coats were being allowed to grow out rather than being kept clipped short, to help keep them warm while travelling.

Fenris found himself wishing he'd brought a treat for the horses – some apples or carrots – but unlike Starkhaven, this was not a place where he could just show up at the kitchen door and ask for such. Another thing to miss about the north; feeling like he was more than just a guest in someone else's home. King Alistair was certainly a friendly enough fellow, and the servants were unfailing polite, and yet there was none of the feeling of _belonging_, none of the acceptance, that he'd come to find in Starkhaven. Mind you he'd had to earn such acceptance there, though the fact that he'd started out in the city by saving Sebastian's life had certainly eased his way with the guards and servants. Here... here he was just some foreign elf, accepted – provisionally – because of Zevran, not for anything he himself had done.

He was feeling rather dejected again when he finally returned to Zevran's rooms, a feeling that only increased when he discovered that he'd just missed seeing Zevran; the guard at the door informed him that Zevran had already been back, and had left word that he didn't expect to be back again before some time the next day.

He wandered through the silent rooms for a while, wishing Zevran was here, then summoned a servant and had a simple supper brought to him; meat, roasted vegetables, and a bottle of wine. He ate slowly, chewing each bite thoroughly before swallowing, to try and make the meal last, but even so it was over all too soon. He sighed, and rose to summon the servant back to remove the dishes, and bring him a second bottle of wine.

After that he curled up in a chair near the fire, with his wine close at hand, and one of the books he'd fetched from the library the other day. He found himself unable to really concentrate on it; he'd read a paragraph or two, then find his thoughts straying back to Zevran and their relationship. Then he'd try reading again, and find himself re-reading parts he'd belatedly realize he'd already read before. Finally he grew too frustrated, put the book aside, and just curled up tight in the chair, and drank his wine, ignoring the glass now in favour of drinking directly from the bottle. That, at least, eventually slowed the whirl of his thoughts, and a while later, they stopped entirely as he dropped into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

Zevran could smell wine as soon as he passed from the foyer into the main room. He came to an abrupt stop as he spotted the shape huddled in the chair near the fireplace, barely lit by the faint glow of the handful of embers that were all that remained of an earlier fire, a book and a wine bottle standing on a small table nearby. He moved slowly forward when the faint sound of even breathing showed that Fenris was sleeping, not sitting up in the darkness. It wasn't until he was quite close that he spotted the second bottle, still held loosely in Fenris' hand, the elf curled up around it like it was some treasured possession. He sighed, and came to a stop, still a step or two away from the chair.

"Fenris," he called quietly, wanting to wake the other elf without startling him. "Fenris?"

The elf shifted and groaned, eyes still shut, hand twitching slightly on the bottle.

"Fenris," Zevran called again, a little louder, and moved closer as the elf stirred and looked around, blinking sleepily, finally at least partially conscious of his surroundings. "You should be in bed," he scolded gently.

"Zevran? Wha... why are you back?"

"I live here," Zevran pointed out dryly.

"I know, but..." Fenris looked around, frowning. "It's night."

"I know," Zevran said quietly, and moved to sit on the arm of the chair. "I came back early." He reached out, pushing some of Fenris' hair out of his eyes, studying what he could see of his face in the poor light. "It didn't feel right, leaving you here alone."

Fenris went very still, studying Zevran's face in turn. Then looked away. "Before or after you met with your friend?" he asked bleakly, voice barely above a whisper.

Zevran froze, feeling the blood drain from his face, then regretfully withdrew his hand. "After. You knew?"

Fenris turned back to look up at him again. "I was in the hallway last night." His voice sounded calm, if slightly hoarse, but even in the dark the assassin could see the way Fenris trembled.

Zevran closed his eyes. "I have hurt you," he said huskily, hating himself. "Fenris..." He stopped, not knowing what to say. A silence stretched out between them.

Fenris shifted, putting aside the empty bottle, then reached out and set his hand on Zevran's knee. "I do not know what to do," he said quietly. "I..." He stopped, then sighed, and leaned his head against the back of the chair, eyes glinting with reflected light as he looked searchingly up at Zevran's face. "I am frightened," he admitted, in a very small voice.

It made Zevran feel as if his heart would break in two, that voice. He trembled himself, torn before the urge to gather Fenris up in his arms and comfort him, and the fear that it would not be welcome. Then Fenris drew a ragged breath, broken by a sob, and he stopped worrying about rejection and slid down into the chair with Fenris, aware only of how the other elf reached out for him even as he reached for Fenris, both of them wrapping themselves around as much of each other as they could reach, the two of them clinging tightly together for some minutes. He was only barely aware of the stream of endearments in Antivan that left his lips as he sought to comfort Fenris, far more aware of how distressed the other elf was, of how shaken he himself felt. Shaken, and full of regrets, that he had come so close to shattering this fragile thing that had formed between them. That there new seemed some small chance that he had not... a blessing unearned.

Fenris calmed, after a while, at least enough to loosen his bruising grip on Zevran and lean back enough that they could look in each other's face. Not the most comfortable of positions for either of them, both of them squeezed together in the chair as they were. Zevran was more-or-less straddling Fenris' legs, though the way Fenris had twisted to the side as they reached for each other meant one of his legs was trapped under the other elf and going numb. Zevran sighed, and forced himself to speak as well. "I am frightened too," he confessed. "I have... you know I have loved only rarely. Had sex many times, yes, have at least a handful of people I truly care for, yes, but love..." He stopped, and swallowed. "It is not words we have said to each other. But I love you, and that frightens me."

Fenris sighed softly, his arms momentarily tightening around Zevran again. "The fear of loss," he said, unsteadily.

"Yes," Zevran agreed, and swallowed thickly. "I have never told you. There was a girl..." He stopped, blinking back tears.

"Anders told me, once," Fenris said quietly. "When I had asked him about your past, before we... when I was still confused about what you wanted of me. He had the story from someone else, he said... a girl named Rinna?"

"Yes. A girl named Rinna. I loved her, and she died, and it was my fault that she died; I could have saved her, and didn't." It seemed so strange to say the words; to say them aloud, which before he'd only ever said in his thoughts. He forced himself to continue, forcing out the words between sharp intakes of breath. "Rinna was killed. By our partner. Whom I trusted, until then. I did not stop him. I _laughed_, and spat on her as she died." The words were bitter; the memories a nightmare. He froze, caught in those memories, _remembering_. The disbelief and hatred he'd felt at first, when he thought she'd betrayed them. Only later realizing that the depth of his hatred and bile as Taliesin killed her was because he had _loved_ her. She had told him in her dying moments that she loved him, and he had spat on her, and _laughed_. And only later regretted, as he began to realize what he had lost; as if some vital part of him had been hacked off, leaving him crippled and bleeding. And then, later, to learn that her treachery had been a lie... not just a mistake, but a _lie!_ He had left Antiva, wanting only to die.

He became aware that he was trembling and wordless with the painful force of the stream of memories. He could feel Fenris' arms around him, hands stroking soothingly up and down his back. He wanted to just stay like that, but he knew the moment could not last. "If you knew where I was going, what I meant to do... then why did you stay?" he forced himself to ask, speaking the words against Fenris' chest because he could not bring himself to lift his head and meet the other man's eyes.

It took Fenris a couple of tries before he managed to speak. "Because I don't want to leave you," he finally rasped out. "I don't want _you_ to leave _me_, either." Fenris drew a breath, his hands moving to push them a little apart again, so he could cup Zevran's face, and look searchingly into his eyes. "I was frightened that I _was_ losing you. That you... that you didn't..." He stopped, and swallowed, then whispered. "That you didn't feel the same about things. But you..." Another stop, a deeper breath. "I love you."

Zevran felt the knot in his own chest loosening a little further, his eyes overflowing with tears. He could not speak. Then Fenris leaned forward, toward him, and lips were touching his, a tongue seeking entrance, hands moving away from his face to touch him elsewhere, gently, carefully, arms gathering him in and holding him as if he was something, someone, worth treasuring. He moaned, feeling himself respond to the touches, feeling Fenris responding as well.

For a little while at least, they both put aside all fear and questions, and just loved.

* * *

Fenris lay on his side, watching Zevran's sleeping face, lit by the morning sun. He ignored the slight ache of his head, the deeper soreness elsewhere from having slept on a floor cushioned only by a carpet that, while it felt deep and lush underfoot, proved overly thin and hard to one now more used to sleeping on thick mattress than on hard floors. They had at some point built up the fire, which at least meant it was not a _cold_ hard floor, but he was certain they were both going to be feeling the aftereffects all day. Though not entirely from the hardness of the floor, he found himself thinking, remembering some of what had passed between them in their desperate love-making the night before, and flushed.

It was, of course, while he was thinking thus that Zevran finally woke as well, eyes slitting open. A smile crossed Zevran's face for a moment, then faded even more quickly that it had appeared, an even more sober expression replacing it. The assassin sighed, then pushed himself partially upright, leaning on one hand. "We have to talk," he said.

"Yes," Fenris agreed, and moved as well, wincing as he rolled over and sat up.

And heard a muttered oath from Zevran as the other elf stood up with none of his usual grace or speed. "I think we would both benefit from a very hot bath," Zevran pointed out.

Fenris rose to his feet as well, moving every bit as stiffly as Zevran had. "I believe you are right," he said.

Zevran nodded tiredly. "And hot tea. And after that, a good breakfast."

"I'll go start the bath running," Fenris said, faintly amused, and turned and walked away, leaving Zevran to deal with their scattered clothing and any possible interactions with servants.

The tub was full of gently steaming spice-scented water by the time Zevran joined him, carrying a tray with a large, cozy-wrapped teapot, mugs, honey, and the small jug of cream that seemed to often accompany tea here in Ferelden. Zevran kicked a small footstool over near the tub, then set the tray on it, pouring for both of them before joining Fenris in the tub, and sighing with relief as he settled down into the hot water.

They did not, as they usually did, sit back-to-front with Zevran in front of Fenris; they sat instead at opposite ends so they could see each other, turned a bit to each side to make room for each other hip-to-feet. Fenris sipped his tea, studying the other elf, while Zevran toyed with his own mug but did not drink, looking ill at ease. Fenris frowned, after several minutes of silence had passed, and set aside his own cup, then leaned forward and plucked the untouched mug from Zevran's hands and putt it aside as well, before taking Zevran's hands in his own.

"Talk," he said.

Zevran drew a deep breath, sighed. "Even if we both love each other," he started out, and then paused, a slight smile flitting across his face, both rueful and amused. "Which seems to be the case. We love each other," he said, his hands tightening briefly on Fenris', voice sounding almost awed for a moment. He paused again, took another deep breath. "I have responsibilities here in Ferelden; you have like ones in Starkhaven. I am... broken, in many ways. You, in different ones. It is hard for me to trust anyone... though I have learned to trust a few, and you are certainly one of them. Trust is no easy thing for you either."

Fenris nodded. And watched silently, as Zevran looked down and away, flushing with more than just the heat of the water.

"I do not deserve your trust," Zevran said raggedly, then looked up again, meeting Fenris' eyes. "_Do not_ tell that I do. I know that I have broken it already, in recent days. I... there are things I do, friends I see, _acts _I am used to, on and around Satinalia. I tried to convince myself that this year was really no different than any other; that you were the same as any other lover I have taken since leaving Antiva, just someone who I share pleasures of the body with, who would not be hurt by my... straying. And yet even as I tried to convince myself, I knew I was lying. Otherwise why was I doing my best to keep such activities a secret from you? It was myself I was lying to," he said bitterly. "_I knew_ how much I have come to care for you, since we first met," he said almost angrily, then paused, and spoke much more softly when he resumed. "I knew I loved you, even if I had not said the words to you. And that frightened me almost as much as the thought that you might leave me."

Fenris swallowed, and tightened his grip on Zevran's hands again. "And some part of you thought, 'this cannot last anyway', and so you allowed yourself to try and ruin it, rather than waiting. Better to destroy it yourself, now, than to wait for the pain to come at another time while hoping it didn't."

Zevran paled, and stared at him for a long moment. "Yes," he whispered. "How do you know?"

Fenris smiled crookedly. "You are far from the only person I've seen undergo such self-destructive impulses," he said. "And I have felt them myself. Especially during the long years in Kirkwall, waiting for Danarius to come and recover me... sometimes _certain_ that he would, in time. There were times when that feeling of... of just _getting it over with_ overcame me as well. Times when I came so close to just dropping my guard, walking out, and letting the slavers take me, just to end the waiting and the fear. Friends I lashed out at, overtures of friendship I ignored, in my need to try and drive them away from me, terrified that once again Danarius might force me to kill those I had come to care for. More frightened of what might be than of what already was."

"I am ashamed by my own weakness," Zevran whispered.

Fenris released Zevran's hands, but only so that he could change his grip to the other elf's wrists and pull him forward. A wry smile twisted Zevran's lips, and he allowed himself to be pulled and turned so that he was in Fenris' lap. "Why are you the one comforting me when it is I that have erred?" he asked, his voice cracking on the words.

Fenris shrugged, and wrapped his arms around the smaller elf. "Because you're the one that needs comforting right now, more than I do. I am..." He paused, and frowned in thought, trying to think how to phrase what he needed to say. "I am content just knowing that you love me, that you fear losing me, as I feared losing you. And I _trust_ that we can work things through between us now, as we have worked through other issues of fear and trust before."

Zevran sighed, and turned to crane upwards and kiss Fenris' cheek. "You are so much better than I deserve," he said, then curled up as much as the confines of the tub would allow, lying cuddled against Fenris' chest with his head resting on Fenris' shoulder. "All right. Let us talk, first of all, of what we each want."

Fenris smiled. "That is easy for me to say. I want you in my life. I want to spend time with you, whenever and wherever we are able. I know..." He paused, and swallowed, then forced himself to continue. "I know that I am... lacking, in some ways, in what you look for in a companion for bedding. I think..." He paused again, drew a second, shuddering breath. Maker, but this was hard to say aloud. "I have no objections to you taking other lovers, especially since by necessity there will be many times when we must be apart, likely for months at a time, I in the north and you here in the south. Only do not lie to me; do not think you must hide such things from me. And do not leave me. Losing your love is the one thing I could not bear," he said, and blinked, knowing his lashes and cheeks were damp with more than just water.

Zevran turned, moving to straddle Fenris' legs and cup his hands around Fenris' head, murmuring reassuringly as he kissed away Fenris' tears.

Fenris smiled weakly when Zevran finally sat back. "You see? We're comforting each other in turn," he said huskily.

Zevran smiled again, a sweet smile this time. "So we are," he agreed, and settled himself more comfortably across Fenris' legs, keeping most of his weight on his own knees and feet, and then leaned over to retrieve their mugs of cooling tea. "Drink," he ordered, handing one back to Fenris.

They drank, eyeing each other as they did. Finally Fenris lowered his almost-empty mug. "Talk," he said. "Tell me what you are thinking."

Zevran smiled again, outer corners of his eyes crinkling. "I am thinking that you are so much more than I deserve. I am thinking I must strive to be deserving of the gift you have given me; your love, and your trust. I must not fail you again as I have these last few days," he said, then sighed, a more serious look crossing his face. "It will not be easy, making this work."

Fenris was the one who smiled now, reaching out to lightly touch his fingertips to the marks on Zevran's face. "I would rather try, and fail, than have us decide not to try at all because we _might_ fail."

Zevran snorted. "True words," he said, and turned his head enough to kiss Fenris' palm. "Come. Let us bathe, and eat, and then we can talk more."

Fenris lifted one eyebrow. "Do you not have more meetings with Alistair and the other nobles today?"

Zevran bit off a curse. "Yes. I would say that _this_ is more important, but that would be putting aside my responsibility to my adoptive country and my people in favour of more private necessity. Do you mind?"

"Go to your meetings. I will still be here when you return," Fenris said.

Zevran sighed. "All right. And if I am not to be shamefully late for them, then I had best bathe and change and eat _quickly_."

Fenris smiled, and reached for the soap.


	30. Fidelity

Fenris sat in the straw in Ari's stall, his back against the wall and the horse's head all but in his lap as he scratched at the stallion's cheeks and around the base of his ears, then up under his forelock. Ari snorted and nudged at him, driving the air out of his lungs with the force of it. Fenris laughed, and pushed the head back, scolding the horse quietly.

To his surprise someone appeared at the gate of the stall, looking in; to his further surprise, it was King Alistair. He hurriedly started to rise so that he could properly bow to the man.

"Don't bother, stay where you are," Alistair said, with an amused smile on his face. "I don't want to disturb you, I was just startled to hear talking from a stall I thought only held a horse. I should have realized it would be you."

Fenris flushed slightly, but remained where he was, seated in the straw, and feeling all too aware of how shabbily dressed he was today. He was wearing his old set of leather armour, still feeling a little fragile after the events of the day before and having wanted to dress for comfort – mental comfort as much as physical. Though Alistair was hardly dressed any better, he saw, the king having reverted to the loose peasant-like garments he himself seemed to prefer.

"Have I told you lately what a beautiful stallion that is?" Alistair asked, the admiration in his voice obvious as he leaned on the gate and looked Ari over with a practised eye. "He's the finest stallion I've ever seen."

Fenris smiled. "No. Though I can easily believe that he is. Of course, I am biased in his favour," he added, and smiled up at Ari as he gave a final scratch to the horse's cheeks before pushing Ari's head away and rising to his feet. Alistair straightened up and backed off a step or two as he approached the gate, giving him room to exit the stall. He went into the next one, where Aer was, and began giving him some attention as well.

"Ready for your trip?" Alistair asked, moving to lean on the door and watch again.

"Ready enough," Fenris agreed. "Though Zevran has gone out to buy a last few things he wants to have for cold weather travel."

Alistair nodded. "He'd know all about that. We were lucky enough to spend the worst of the winter down in the Deep Roads well away from the cold, but we still did our fair share of trekking through deep snow. And I know he's done more since," Alistair said, then smiled crookedly. "For all the complaining he does about the cold and the snow, he does seem to spend a lot of time running around in it. I sometimes suspect he actually rather enjoys it."

Fenris smiled slightly. He could easily imagine Zevran liking it; surviving a dangerous environment could be an enjoyable challenge. And perhaps even more so when the danger came only from the harshness of the environment, not from any malevolent intelligence. "I just hope I enjoy it as well," he said. "And I owe you an apology for not remaining at the costume ball long enough for you to provide a public excuse for our trip."

Alistair made a dismissive gesture. "It's all right; Zevran and Teagan and I had a fairly loud and slightly drunken conversation about horses where your search for stock was brought up, and Teagan mentioned the Frostback draft breed. So a number of listening ears with Orlesian connections have now heard that the assassin is planning to take his guest out west to see them, despite the prospect of bad weather."

Fenris nodded, feeling relieved. "Good. The less who know the true purpose of our trip, the better."

Alistair smiled, and said nothing else for a little while, just watching Fenris and the horse, bent forward so that he could rest his chin on his crossed arms where they rested on top of the gate. It wasn't quite a companionably silence – Fenris was still not comfortable enough in Alistair's presence for that – but it was close. It was only when he was moving on to Feo's stall that Alistair finally spoke again, clearing his throat and giving Fenris a nervous look.

"So, uhh... this may be none of my business, but is everything all right between you and Zevran? He seemed a little _odd_ yesterday. Odder than usual," Alistair said, his cheeks and ears flushing with embarrassment. "I only ask because he's a good friend, and I worry about him," he hurried to add. "Feel free to tell me if it's none of my business, I'll just... I'll just shut up now."

Fenris flushed as well, and turned his head away a little, concentrating on the horse and trying to ignore how uncomfortable the subject made him feel. "We had... a misunderstanding. We are working our way past it now."

"Oh," Alistair said, and feel silent for a while again. "Knowing Zevran... was it because he... that he was... I mean... oh, forget it."

Fenris was startled into a brief laugh, and smiled crookedly at Alistair. "Because I discovered he was fucking someone else? Yes," he said bluntly, and found himself feeling amused by how darkly Alistair blushed at the crudity. Amused, but also touched by the effort the man was making on a subject that clearly disconcerted him.

"You're not going to break up with him or anything, are you? You'll be staying with him?" Alistair asked anxiously.

"No, we're not going to break up," he said, and found himself flushing again. "He and I... it is not just the sex, you understand. I..." He broke off, and shook his head, the subject being too personal for him to really wish to talk of with another. Not when it had been so short a time since he and Zevran had been able to admit the true depth of their feelings to one another. He glanced at Alistair after a while, when the man said nothing in response, and was surprised by the warmth of the smile on the man's face.

"I'm glad," Alistair said quietly. "He's needed someone for a long time. As long as I've known him; longer." He grinned, suddenly. "Though trying to imagine a Zevran who isn't as, um... generous with his company as he used to be, that's a little hard to imagine quite yet."

Fenris gave Alistair a puzzled look as he slid past him to move on to Feo's stall. "Why would he need to be any less, as you put it, _generous_?"

Alistair stared at him, clearly shocked. "You mean... you're okay with him sleeping around?"

Fenris frowned slightly at Alistair's tone of obvious disbelief. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Um... Well, it's kind of a usual part of most relationships. Expecting your partner nor to be promiscuous, I mean."

Fenris frowned again. "Not where I come from," he pointed out.

Alistair looked startled. "It's not?"

"No," Fenris said shortly, then sighed. Ferelden was about as far as it was possible to get from Tevinter, without sailing to a different land entirely. How was Alistair to know what was normal there, unless he explained in greater detail. "Magister's sleep with whomever they want to, within certain bounds. And slaves may only sleep – and _must_ sleep – with whomever their masters command. No slave can expect monogamy."

"But you're not a slave now..."

"I _was_ one, for most of what I can remember of my life. Even if I had happened to fall in love with someone in Tevinter, the chance of my actually being allowed to sleep with them would have been very small; the punishment for being caught doing so without permission likely severe. And most likely of all, my love for someone, if discovered, would have been used as another source of punishment for me," he said bleakly, then shrugged. "This _fidelity_ that seems so important to free men and women; it has nothing to do with me or my expectations."

He frowned a moment, then reluctantly continued. "I... what I feel for Zevran, it would not change even if we could not, for whatever reason, ever have sex again. Sex is... it's nice, but it's not _necessary_. I would..." He stopped, and swallowed, his voice thick with emotion when he continued. "I would love him regardless. I _do_ love him regardless. What do I care if he sometimes sleeps with others, as long as he loves me as well as I love him?" He had to look away, his head ducking down and voice dropping, before he could manage to continue speaking. "I will admit I felt some jealousy, seeing others touching him familiarly at the party, and when I realized he was going off to see someone else... but it was not the thought of him being with another that so upset me, that is a trivial matter. It was the fear that perhaps he didn't feel the same about me as I do about him," he explained, then managed a smile, and glanced at Alistair through the fall of his hair. "But he does. And as long as he does, I am content."

Alistair's smile was the warmest he'd ever seen. "You remind me of a discussion in my youth. An elderly priest was talking to our class of templars in training about love, and its many forms; the love of parents for their children, and children for their parents, and the love between siblings – familial love. The love we feel toward the Maker and Andraste, or whatever other gods we follow - worship. Carnal love, as well, the emotion we may feel toward someone we are physically involved with, which may or may not include a strong emotional attachment beyond the lust underlying it. And what she said was the highest love, selfless love; love for another that is not tied to their relationship to us or ours to them, but simply _is_."

Fenris smiled. "Yes. What is between Zevran and I, it _exists_, independent of what else we may do together. Coming together in carnal congress is merely one expression of it, a celebration of it. It cannot be touched by what he does with others."

Alistair looked pleased now. "Yes. I know that sort of love; I should have realized sooner. The two of you are lucky men."

Fenris gave him a puzzled glance, and then his expression smoothed out as he remembered. "Soria."

"Yes. Even if it's years until I see her again... I never doubt that she loves me, as I love her. I can only wait, until we can be together again. And yet I love Mairead as well, only it is a different love; more like what I would feel for a good friend than what the mother of my children and my Queen is truly due, but..." Alistair sighed, and shrugged. "My heart is already given. I can only share some small part of it with Mairead. I am lucky she is willing to settle for crumbs instead of having the whole thing. What we share is sadly more of duty then of real love. But she is a good friend, and I am thankful for that."

Fenris nodded. A silence fell again, as he moved on from Feo to the two pack horses, Alistair clearly lost in thought and memory. Finally Fenris cleared his throat. "The horses need exercising," he said. "I should take them to the menage and ride them for a while. Would you like to help?"

Alistair's face lit up. "Would I! Do you think I might ride Ari? Just the once?"

Fenris laughed. "We'll see," he said agreeably.


	31. Setting Out

It was a cold day when they left Denerim, everything sparkling with frost but only a faint dusting of snow on the ground yet. They would head generally southwest first of all, Zevran had explained, passing to the south of Lake Calenhad before turning northwards again to make for Haven, the remote village hidden somewhere in the Frostback Mountains to the west of the lake, though in the short turn their route would of necessity be more winding, following the course of the Drakon river as it threaded through the Southron hills.

They wore only some of their new cold-weather gear, most of it remaining packed away, it not yet being cold enough to require wearing it. Fenris had not even bothered with boots yet, feeling the sheepskin-lined tapederos he had were enough for now. They had seen him through an entire winter in Starkhaven, after all.

He was glad to be on the road again. Sitting around with nothing to do in Denerim had chafed, especially when his thoughts would turn northward, and he'd find himself worrying how things were in Starkhaven, with Sebastian and Anders and the threat of a chantry-led invasion. Worried about his friends in Kirkwall as well, and Hawke, wherever it was the man had wandered off to with Nathaniel and Soria. More than just his close friends, too; he worried as well about many of the others he'd come to know in Starkhaven; the servants in the palace, the baker and his apprentices, the pair of elven children he'd helped, the peasants out in the countryside near the city of Starkhaven and at Sebastian's estates who'd become known faces to him. His own people as well, at Brynhir, more recently met but several of them already well liked by him.

It felt odd to have so many people he cared about the well-being of. Odd, and yet also a good feeling, knowing that at least some of them cared for him to some degree in turn. And especially good to know that Zevran cared very much about him. He found himself smiling, not minding in the least the nip of cold air at his ears and cheeks and heels, content just to be riding alongside the elf on the road out of Denerim. He glanced over at Zevran, and found the assassin smiling at him.

"You look so pleased," Zevran said.

"I am pleased," Fenris agreed, and kneed Ari closer, leaning over and down in an attempt to kiss Zevran.

Zevran laughed, and pulled back on Feo's reins, slowing and craning towards Fenris just enough to make a brief kiss possible. "I think I like you in this mood," Zevran said afterwards, a touch smugly, drawing a laugh in turn from Fenris.

"It's been too long since we last went riding together. Can we run for a while?" Fenris asked.

"All right," Zevran agreed, and set heels to Feo's flanks, leading them off on a run along the road, nearly deserted at this hour of the morning.

They did not race for very far; their off-mounts wouldn't have minded, but it was unkind to the heavily laden pack-horses, and the pair of mules that Zevran had acquired somewhere to carry even more supplies made their dislike of the faster pace known with some very loud braying. Still, the short run put Fenris in an even better mood, a mood Ari clearly shared, the stallion prancing along afterwards with neck curved and his hoofs lifting and setting very snappily, his tail flagging back and forth.

The pair of finely-dressed elves and their horses drew a few looks along the road from those they passed, mostly puzzled or inquisitive, only an occasional person betraying some sort of hostility to them in their expression. But most people didn't even notice the elves, too busy looking at their horses to see who was riding them.

They dismounted in mid-morning, stopping long enough to let their mounts drink at a stream that ran near the road, and switched to their off-mounts before continuing on, enjoying the day as it warmed. They reached an inn Zevran knew of in time for lunch, one midway through the narrow valley that the Drakon river had carved through the Southron hills at some time in the far-distant past on its way to meet the Amaranthine ocean. The river was narrow and fast there, rushing through a shallow gorge to one side of the road, the inn set on a hillside on the other, overlooking both road and river.

Zevran was clearly well known there, greeted cordially by name and title with much bowing and bobbing of heads. Fenris supposed this was another place where Zevran was known as an excellent tipper, and treated accordingly. Their mounts were led off to the stable, themselves led to a table by a large window. "It is better in warmer weather," Zevran said as they took their seats, gesturing at the window. "When this is open there is a magnificent view of the road and the river below."

Fenris nodded, admiring the size of the expanse of glass. It was made of numerous diamond-shaped panes of glass, each only about the size of the palm of his hand, the ripples and bubbles distorting the view. "It's too bad the glass is not better," he said.

Zevran shrugged. "I know the dwarves have a trick for making very good, flat glass in larger sheets – I bought from them for my own manor – but it is very expensive to buy, especially if the panes must be transported any distance. In Ferelden you will find few places that have any glass at all, apart from the homes of the wealthier nobles or the chantry buildings. Panes of horn or oiled, thin-scraped skin are far more common, and many don't even have that much."

Fenris nodded. His expectations were spoiled, he supposed, from his years in Kirkwall, where the surface dwarves had a sizable glass foundry, and most of the richer houses had windows of good flat glass, in panes larger than both his hands outspread, sometimes even larger. The art of making it so large and so perfectly flat was a well-kept secret, he knew; the factory was guarded day and night, the dwarven guild that ran it particularly clannish of their kind, suspicious even of other dwarves. Human made glass was never as good quality, usually rippled and ridged from being spun out as a circular plate, or with large flattened air bubbles in it from being formed between rollers. And this expanse of glass... it was expensive stuff, he knew, and a window this size clearly represented a significant investment.

Their lunch was excellent. Zevran had a meal built around smoked salmon, caught in season in the river below and prepared by the innkeeper's family recipe, they were told. Fenris turned up his nose at the fish, of course, and tried some pork seethed with pickled cabbage, carrots, and apples instead. It was delicious, tender and tangy, and he ate more of it than he should.

"The farther we get from the city, the poorer the food will be," Zevran said when Fenris hesitated over whether or not to have a second helping. "You should enjoy this while we can."

When they resumed their travels for the afternoon, both of them were content to ride along at a much slower pace for a while, letting their meals settle. The sky was already darkening by the time they emerged from the pass into the flatter lands northwest of the line of hills, the previously sunny sky turning grey. Zevran eyed the clouds warily. "There is a hostelry I know of not too far from here," he said. "I think we might want to stop there for the night. We could push on, there will be light for at least a couple of hours yet, but I dislike the look of those clouds, and we would have to push on after dark to reach the next place where I am sure we can find shelter short of camping out overnight."

"We have a tent, and warm bedding," Fenris pointed out.

"Yes, but the further west we go, the fewer places there will be where we can stay; we will be doing a great deal of camping out eventually as it is. I would prefer to make use of any real shelter we have until then."

Fenris shrugged. "I have no objection to sleeping warm tonight," he said.

"Good. Then follow me; the place I am thinking of is off of the main road," Zevran said, and set Tipo to walking faster, turning off into a side road that led south up into the hills a few miles later. It was darkening fast by the time the reached the place Zevran had in mind, with small flakes having begun to drift down out of the sky as they rode

The hostelry was a large building close beside the road, two stories in height, the lower floor of stone – mortared cobbles, not anything cut to shape – and the upper of timbers, the yard fenced in with wooden rails, a low wooden barn in back. There was a cluster of huts beyond it; a hamlet of woodsmen and hunters, Zevran explained, as well as the families of the servants who worked at the hostelry.

Their welcome here was not as warm as it had been at the inn, but neither was it hostile; indifferent, more than anything else. Zevran dickered briefly with the man who ran the place, procuring stable room for their horses and mules, and a room for themselves, a few coins paying to have some of the servants help carry all their gear upstairs.

"Will the horses be safe unguarded?" Fenris asked softly once the servants had left them alone.

"Yes, almost as safe as if we were guarding them ourselves," Zevran said. "The hostler depends for his business on merchants who must trust that their animals will be safe here; he has a guard on the barn at night, as well as stable boys sleeping in among the animals."

Fenris nodded, reassured, and the two went downstairs in search of an evening meal. The food was not as fine as at the inn, being just a thick stew of some gamey tasting meat – elk or deer most likely, Zevran said – and vegetables. There was wine or ale to drink with it, though the wine proved very thin and sour, not at all to his taste. Still, the meal was filling, and he'd certainly eaten far worse in his time.

They retired to their room afterwards, there being nothing of interest to give them any reason to linger in the common room downstairs. Their room was cold, heated only by air rising from the rooms below, so there was also no point in staying up; they changed into their night shirts and went straight to bed, cuddling together for warmth but neither feeling in the mood for anything more adventurous that night.


	32. A Feeling of Familiarity

Zevran frowned, reining in Feo briefly as he studied the sky.

"What is it?" Fenris asked, pausing as well and looking questioningly back over his shoulder at the assassin.

"I don't like the look of that sky," Zevran said.

Fenris frowned up at the clouds, then shrugged. "It's grey. It's been grey since we left the hostel."

That had been three days ago; Zevran still regretted that they'd both been too tired to make any more use of the bed in their room than for sleeping. It had been the last place where they'd had the privacy to do anything intriguing. The next night had been spent sleeping in a common room at a small roadside inn, wedged in between other travellers, and the night after that had seen them sharing a dilapidated barn at an abandoned farmstead with a merchant and his two sons, the three of them bound eastwards to Denerim. The three had at least been reasonably companionable, and Zevran had enjoyed sitting by the fire and discussing business with the merchant. The merchant had been pleased too, once he'd figured out that the blond elf lounging across the fire from him was the notorious elven Bann of Blackmarsh. Zevran felt reasonably sure he'd have a new merchant showing up to trade in Blackmarsh the following year. Which he was all in favour of; his people needed better access to merchants, and improved trade would enrich his own pockets as well, which never hurt.

"Grey, yes," he agreed. "But this is a different grey, and the wind has changed. We will have snow before evening, I think."

Fenris grunted, then resumed riding. Zevran followed, still casting occasional dubious glances at the sky. And was rewarded, all too soon, with the sight of the first few flakes sifting down. Just small widespread ones at first, which had Fenris giving him an amused look when he sped up slightly, but within a very short time it began to change to much heavier snow, not tiny individual flakes any longer but big fat clots of snow, quickly covering the ground in white and beginning to accumulate.

By late afternoon it was obvious they were going to have to find a place to stop for the night already, well-shy of where Zevran had meant them to stay. The snow was several inches deep and coming down heavier, and visibility was worsening steadily. He was considering whether they would need to make use of their tent when he spied the a rail fence ahead, approaching out of the greyness to their right and then turning to parallel the road. There must be a farmstead here, he thought, and kneed Feo closer to it, watching for a gate or gap.

A very small farm, he saw, once they found and followed a narrow hedgerow-lined laneway away from the road. A cottage of cheap wattle-and-daub construction, a shed – too small to be called a barn – of similar build. It would have been rather picturesque on a fine summer day, he supposed, the massive bare tree that overshadowed the cottage in leaf, perhaps some chickens scratching away in the dirt near the stone-walled well... but in winter its only real beauty lay in the fact that it offered possible warm shelter.

The farmer, when he knocked at the door, proved to be a suspicious sort, and it took much talking, and the passing of several silver coins under the door – the gap of which had to be scraped clear of snow before he could do so – before the old man was willing to unbar it and admit them. At least he proved much friendlier once he'd decided that they were not brigands; he pulled on his own shabby coat to come out and show the elves where they could put their livestock. There wasn't room in the shed – it was full of goats and an elderly sow – but there was a large pen in back of it that was sheltered from the worst of the wind by the two buildings and the tree, and with their tack removed and pinned up in blankets, the beasts would do well enough outside.

They were all three coated with snow by the time they'd seen to the comfort of the horses and mules and finished carrying their gear indoors. They stamped and brushed off as much as they could just inside the door, the farmer's wife – as elderly a specimen as he himself was – waiting by anxiously with a broom to sweep it all out before it could melt.

The cottage was small but snug, with a floor of slates set in clay, the walls well-chinked against winter drafts. It was all one room, with a fireplace at the far end from the door, and a small loft in the rafters overhead where the farmer and his wife slept. The rafters themselves were well-hung with supplies for the winter – strings of onions and garlic and hot peppers, dried bundles of herbs, coils of sausages, smoked hams, smoked fish, flitches of bacon and the like – and a considerable amount of what limited floorspace the cottage had was similarly occupied by barrels and sacks of other supplies. It left very little actual room for movement. Still, tight quarters made for warmth, and the farmer and his wife both proven reasonably friendly once they'd gotten past their initial nervousness at admitting the two elves. Zevran was amused by the way the farmer – Theo, he said his name was – and Fenris exchanged equally wary looks, both as strange to each other as it was possible to be.

Zevran had dealt with Fereldan peasants many time before, however, and it was not long until he had the farming couple set at their ease, he and Fenris seated out of the way on a pair of barrels while the farmer's wife – Gerty – bustled around making supper for the four of them. He'd insisted on contributing toward the meal, knowing just how much hard work the winter supplies represented, and gifted Gerty with a jar of honey and a small tin of tea from their supplies, both luxury items that would be worth more to the couple over the winter than any coin would have been. Coin would be hoarded until spring, when the farmer could travel to the nearest town safely; honey and tea they could enjoy now.

Supper was good, a boiled dinner of smoked ham simmered with chunks of potato, carrots, yellow turnip, onion, and wedges of cabbage, well-seasoned with herbs and hot pepper. There was chunks of bread to sop up the salty pan-juices, and afterwards they sat around and sipped sweetened tea – not using the honey or tea Zevran had contributed, but some the couple already had open, a logical economy that Zevran agreed with. Even if his tea was much better than the coarser stuff the farming couple had on hand. Though their honey was better , he judged, likely from some wild-grown bee tree instead of a tame skep of bees. It was a light amber colour with a strongly floral taste that came through even when mixed into the bitter tea.

He and the farmer talked for some time after the meal, the farmer a little reticent at first but becoming more open as the evening progressed and he realized that Zevran actually had some understanding of farming and was asking intelligent questions of him. His wife sat nearby, working on knitting by firelight, but listening closely as well, occasionally smiling or nodding. Much of what he learned that evening was just trivia, of little use to anyone, such as that the honey did come from a bee-tree, a great hollow oak on the edge of a large natural meadow that sprouted heavily in thistles each year. The price of goat cheese had gone up slightly this year, which made the farmer happy since it was one of the things he and his wife sold. But wheat and oatmeal were costing more this year, which made him unhappy, since that was something they bought. The road had been busy with travellers this fall, including, yes, a number of templars, mostly headed west.

Eventually the farmer and his wife retired upstairs to bed, the two elves making themselves as comfortable as they could with bedrolls spread before the coals of the fire. Apart from the continued lack of privacy, it was not too bad; Zevran had certainly slept in worse conditions. And it was always good to be warm indoors while listening to the hiss of snow outside.

* * *

"You should put on stockings and boots today," Zevran advised Fenris. "It will be cold this morning, and likely to get even colder as we near the lake."

Fenris grunted acknowledgement, but dug a pair of stockings and his lightest pair of boots – the soft sheared sheepskin ones – out of his pack, then sat down on a barrel head to pull them on. Zevran, meanwhile, shook out and neatly rolled and tied their bedding.

Theo and Gerty were stirring by then as well, and once Theo came down he and Fenris both went out to check on their livestock; Theo on his goats and pig, Fenris on the horses and mules.

When Gerty came down, she smiled pleasantly at Zevran and offered to make some warm breakfast for himself and Fenris before they set out. Zevran was pleased to accept. It wasn't anything more than slices of yesterday's bread fried in bacon grease and topped with the cooked bacon, some pleasantly pungent soft white cheese – goat's milk, no doubt – and a little chopped red onion, along with mugs of more honey-sweetened tea, but it was well-worth the few coppers it cost. Zevran was in a good mood when they resumed travelling, even despite the snow on the ground.

"Where will we stop tonight?" Fenris asked, looking uncertainly around at the snow-covered landscape.

Zevran could understand his uncertainty; that one snowfall the night before had dropped almost as much snow in one night as they would have seen in a week or more in the Free Marches. The other elf was likely only just realizing that all Zevran's talk about the expected harshness of a Fereldan winter was more than just words. "I was hoping to reach Redcliffe by tonight," Zevran said. "Though as early as we had to stop yesterday because of the snow, we may not be able to reach there before dark."

Fenris nodded thoughtfully. "Will it be better to push on, or to stop short?"

Zevran shrugged. "We shall see later, I suppose. At least the snow is not yet deep enough to slow us much."

The weather, as he'd promised, was cold; noticeably colder than it had been before the snow passed through, sign as it had been of colder winds blowing up from the far south. It would, he knew from past experience, be even colder as they approached the lake, the winds sweeping rapidly towards the vast expanse of flat, relatively warm water. There would be many storms around there, particularly once they rounded the southern end of the lake and moved to the western shores, where the winds, now laden with moisture from the lake, lost it all again as they rushed up the steep mountain slopes.

He was, he was mildly surprised to notice, actually looking forward to it. Mostly because of the enjoyment he would derive from introducing Fenris to a _real _winter. It would not be without danger, of course; even as well-prepared as they were, they still risked themselves by being out and abroad in such harsh conditions. And yet... he _did_ enjoy it, this pitting of himself and his abilities and knowledge against the elements. It was like the preparation for and danger of a mission of assassination, without as much chance of a death at the end of it.

They spoke little that day, neither of them in much mood for conversation. What words they exchanged were mostly of the trivial sort. A few minor questions from Fenris about the weather; a brief discussion on what to eat for lunch, a cold one taken on horseback while they continued moving. Equally brief talk about when and where to stop, rest the horses, and switch off their mounts. It was late afternoon, and they were discussing how it was getting close to time to make another such stop when Zevran began to have an uneasy feeling. A feeling of nagging familiarity; of danger. He lifted one hand, and Fenris broke off in mid-sentence, reining in and looking uneasily around as he picked up on Zevran's mood.

"What is it?" he asked softly when a couple of minutes had passed with no obvious danger appearing.

"I'm not sure," Zevran said, then dismounted from Tipo, tossing his reins to Fenris, and walked a few paces forward, before turning a slow circle. Something... something about the shape of the land here. A dip, the laneway they were following curving through the bottom of it, the hillsides to either side stepped back from the road... he inhaled sharply, and spun to look to his left. A long slanted ledge, the far end curving downwards to meet the road, and at the near end, a single jagged splinter of wood pointless skywards, a small leafless sapling lifting finger-thin branches to the cloudy skies beside it.

He staggered, ambushed by memories, dropping to his knees in the snow as his legs gave out beneath him. He heard a worried shout from Fenris, and then the horses were by him, the other elf vaunting down to crouch beside him, glancing worriedly around with hand raised to his sword hilt, face grim. "What is it?" Fenris demanded. "Are you injured?"

"No. I... no," he croaked out, and closed his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed. "There is no danger," he said hoarsely.

Fenris' hand squeezed his shoulder. "Then what is wrong?" he asked softly, sounding much calmer now.

Zevran drew a deep, shuddering breath. "This place. I _know_ this place," he said, then surged to his feet, shaking off Fenris' hand, and plunged a few steps forward, glancing around to get his bearings before coming to an abrupt halt. "Here," he said, and kicked at the snow, marking out a rough shape in the loose powder. "We had brought an ox cart, the little Crows and I. We slaughtered the oxen here, overturned and destroyed the cart, made it look like an ambush."

He moved a few feet to one side. "I hid, here, crouched behind the cart, the little Crows daubed themselves with ox blood and pretended to be dead. The archers hid on the ledges, there, and there," he pointed to either side. "And we had trapped the area. The Grey Wardens were coming, we knew. The little Crows thought we were here to kill them; only I knew otherwise," he said bleakly, and then shrugged, eyes not seeing Fenris rising slowly to his feet, a worried expression on his face, but instead that day, that _hour_. The moment when the pair of wardens and their companions walked into view, following so naively along in the woman's wake. He could not even remember her name, he realized, and the only detail of her appearance was the sandy blond straight shoulder-length hair she'd had. Had her nose been sharp, or rounded? It didn't matter. "They were very little Crows," he said unsteadily. "More brigands and petty thieves than _assassins_. No great loss to the Guild if they all died along with me, I thought."

He gestured, his voice now flat, almost emotionless. "They came from over there. Soria. Alistair. A few others; a witch, a bard, a qunari warrior. A mabari, of course. Led neatly into my little trap. Though it was not their deaths I aimed for."

He paused, eyes shutting again. Swallowed. Continued, voice thin and tight with the strain, with the burden of his memories. "You must understand. From the moment I decided to leave Antiva, to flee... I knew I was going in search of my death. I wanted to die. I thought I deserved to die. Every thing I did, every little thing, I marked down as a _last_. The last time I woke in Taliesin's bed. The last time I cleaned and dressed myself in my own rather smaller room. The last time I walked out the door of the apartment we had shared for so many years, first him and I, then all three of us, and now just the two of us again. The last time I bought and ate a little basket of fresh cherries from the old lady in the market. The last slow stroll down to the docks. The last time I left Antiva city, though the first time I did not look back. It was all lasts, after that; all farewells, to things I had previously loved. Bit by bit, little by little, I said good-bye to it all; all my old life. Until I was crouched here, behind a burnt waggon with the stink of dead oxen in my nose and my intended death walking innocently toward me."

He opened his eyes again, though it was only that day he saw, a hot dry summer day, smelling of dust and sounding like cicadas and grasshoppers. Not the blanket of snow that surrounded them now. "I rose as they approached; I wanted them to be prepared, you see, so they would do a proper job of killing me. There was a dead tree over there; we had it rigged to fall across the road behind them, blocking their escape. 'The Wardens die here!' I cried out, and my Crows and I attacked. For most of them it ended very quickly; the common wisdom among those who think about such things is that to be sure of killing a warden, you should bring at least ten good men. I had less than that, and none of them good. I _smiled_ as the wardens and their companions cut down the little Crows I had brought there to die with me. I fought without any care for my own safety; I was not here to kill, but to be killed. I remember how... how strange I felt, how elated, even uplifted, as Alistair rammed me with his shield, as his sword swung at me. I _welcomed_ the darkness when it came."

He fell silent again, only partially aware of Fenris moving to stand nearby, the worried look on his face turned to a strange calm now; almost emotionless.

"And then I woke," Zevran finally said, and shuddered. "And realized, in that moment, even before I opened my eyes and found Soria and Alistair standing over me, their party at their back, that I did not, after all, wish to die. Ah, the irony, to be bound and helpless at their feet and pleading desperately to be allowed to retain my life, after having sworn to myself that I would end it. After having thought that I'd succeeded."

Fenris finally spoke. "And Soria spared you," he said.

Zevran blinked, then smiled at Fenris; a wistful smile. A sad smile. "Yes. For whatever odd reason of her own, she did. And I swore myself to her service. It was... a very hard time for me. I had thought my life ended. I had said good-bye to everything I knew, everything I enjoyed. For a long time afterwards, it was hard for me to accept that all those farewells, all those _lasts_, had not come to be true after all. I think I was in a daze for the first few days; it was weeks before I began to really accept that I was still alive. That I was going to _remain_ alive. Months before I could even begin to truly enjoy life again." He turned to look at Fenris, and then slowly smiled. "To allow myself _passion_ again."

The slightest of smiles crooked one corner of Fenris' lips, and then he closed the gap between them, reaching out to set one hand on Zevran's shoulder, touch his cheek lightly with the other. "I am glad you decided to live," he said, voice low and rumbling, and Zevran found a smile on his own lips, and a brief laugh welling from somewhere deep inside.

"So am I," he agreed, and reached up to close gloved hands around Fenris' head and pull the other elf down into a warm kiss. He sighed afterwards, wrapping his arms around Fenris' waist and just leaning his forehead against his shoulder for a few minutes, smiling when Fenris wrapped his own arms around Zevran in turn. It was very nice to stand that way; to have someone to hold and be held by. He listened to the silence of the snow-draped landscape, broken only by their own quiet breathing and the sounds of one of the horses pawing at the snow to look for anything edible underneath. Finally he raised his head again. "So am I," he repeated, then released Fenris, and stepped back. "Come, we have a long way yet to go. From here I think we can make Redcliffe tonight, though it will not be until some hours after dark."

"Dark comes early this time of year," Fenris pointed out as they returned to their mounts and began transferring gear between horses, it being time to switch off again anyway.

"Yes, I know," Zevran agreed, and fell silent again, lost in his thoughts of that long ago summer's day. That day, and of all that had occurred since.

He paused for just a moment after they had finally remounted, looking around at the snow-covered landscape, smooth and trackless apart from where the horses had trampled a path through it, and where he and Fenris had walked. To no one else's eyes would this seem a particularly special place; to no one but himself and, perhaps, Soria or Alistair. But to him, this was there he'd been reborn from the ashes of his previous life.

He touched heels to Feo's flanks, and the pair of them moved on.


	33. An Evening at Redcliffe

They had only a brief glimpse of the sun setting over the southern reaches of the lake before snow began falling again. Not a real storm this time, thankfully, just enough of a haze of fine flakes to hide the view, dropping visibility to only a couple of hundred feet at most. The light faded rapidly as the sun vanished behind the distant Frostback mountains, passing quickly through that stage where everything was dyed a brilliant deep blue and soon leeched of colour entirely, everything going dull and grey.

Zevran had, of course, made sure that they were prepared for travel in such conditions. He paused long enough to retrieve one of several torches from among the the gear carried by their pack-horses, one of well-seasoned hardwood, the end wrapped in an oil-soaked rag to make lighting it easier. When they moved on again, it was at the centre of a pool of flickering light. They took turns carrying the torch, it being very wearying on the arm to hold it up for any length of time.

Zevran was glad that this section of road was quite well-marked, being travelled year-round as it was. There were tall milestones along it at regular intervals, as well as a line of wide-spread poles just to the north of it, to warn travellers away from the cliffs, and even without those the track of the road was still visible as a depression in the snow. They had to move slowly, the horses picking their footing carefully, but as true night fell he knew from a few familiar landmarks that they were close enough to Redcliffe that there was no point in camping for the night, when they could push onwards just a little further and stay at the village instead. Perhaps even the castle; Arl Eamon didn't much care for Bann Zevran, but he was punctilious in his courtesy, and would never think of turning away a noble in search of shelter. Well, perhaps he'd _think_ of it, particularly in Zevran's case, but he was highly unlikely to ever actually do it.

The snow was thinning as they climbed the slope of the hills ringing Redcliffe, and cleared entirely just after they crested the ridge. It made for a magnificent first sight of the place; the snow-draped roofs of the village and the castle offshore seeming almost to glow in the moonlight, the absolute blackness of the lake's water, and lights still twinkling at many windows. Fenris sucked in breath, making a surprised and appreciative sound that made Zevran smile.

"It surprises me sometimes, how beautiful snow can be," Zevran remarked as they started down the hill. "Beautiful enough that one can forgive how inconvenient it tends to be. Not to mention deadly."

Fenris merely grunted, too busy staring around to really respond.

Their path down the hill took them by the gatehouse that guarded the landward side of the castle bridge, a defence added since the Blight year. A pair of guards were standing to either side of the gate, well bundled up in their little shelters, and doubtless with braziers keeping them warm. One stepped out of his shelter as they drew near. "Who goes there?" he called, voice slightly muffled by the long scarf looped around his head and lower face.

Zevran drew his horse to a stop, and bowed deeply from the saddle. "Bann Zevran of Blackmarsh, and a companion," he called back. "Is it not too late to approach the castle tonight? Or would I be better off continuing down to the village?"

The guard reached up and tugged down the edge of his scarf, revealing a wide smile. "Bann Zevran! The gates of Redcliffe Castle are never closed to you. I am sure Arl Eamon will be pleased to see you. Bann Teagan is also here, and I am sure will be equally delighted."

Zevran was surprised but pleased to hear that Bann Teagan was here; he and the other man had always gotten along reasonably well, Teagan having been initially impressed by Zevran's prowess with a blade during the battle of Redcliffe Village, and having since learned a deep respect for his political acumen as well. Besides, their politics tended to march well together, both of them being strong supporters of King Alistair and his policies. For that matter, there was a good chance that, as deep in Alistair's councils as he generally was, that he was out here on a mission not unrelated to their own. Something Zevran made note to discuss with Teagan if the chance presented itself.

Accordingly a few minutes later, having crossed the lengthy wooden bridge across to the castle, they dismounted in the castle courtyard, grooms quickly appearing to help them with their mounts. One of the door guards vanished indoors to inform the castle of their presence, and Bann Teagan came out a few minutes later, not having bothered to even put on a heavier coat first, a pleased smile on his face.

"Bann Zevran! Knowing of your travel plans, I was rather hoping our paths might cross," he said, and then stopped and stared at Fenris' horse. "Dear Maker... what a magnificent horse," he said, voice actually shocked, and insisted on attending them into the stable to see Ari up close in better light. "Alistair had said you had a particularly fine stallion you planned to use as the core of your breeding efforts, but I never imagined anything like this beauty. I haven't seen such a fine horse since I was in the north. May I ask where you bought him?"

"He was a gift," Fenris said, looking a little uneasy at all the attention; it seemed like every groom and stable-boy in the place had come over to see his horse.

"From Prince Sebastian of Starkhaven, from the royal breeding farm there," Zevran told Teagan. "He and Lord Fenris are close friends." Fenris flushed slightly; he still wasn't used to having a title, Zevran could see. Nor comfortable with name-dropping about his ties in the north. It was something he was going to have to get used to, Zevran knew; having powerful connections and a title of his own made him a power as well, even if he didn't really understand that yet.

Teagan must have noticed how uneasy the crowd was making Fenris, he frowned slightly and said something quietly to Eamon's stable-master, who quickly dispersed the grooms and stable-boys back to their work elsewhere, keeping back only those who were needed to actually care for the tired horses. They soon had all of the horses unloaded, their tack removed and being cleaned, the horses themselves led into large box stalls and being groomed and fed. Zevran had most of their gear simply piled in an empty stall, and only some of it carried indoors.

Teagan frowned slightly as they crossed the courtyard toward the castle doors, and glanced sideways at Zevran. "I should warn you," he said very quietly. "My brother is unwell. He has never really recovered from Arlessa Isolde's death, and this last summer..." He broke off, frown deepening.

"I heard the rumours in Denerim," Zevran told him equally quietly. "It is true then? Little Rowan is also a mage?"

"Yes," Teagan said, and sighed. "Properly speaking she should have been sent to the tower as soon as it was discovered, but Eamon has been unwell for some time. Dispensation was given for her to remain here until the spring, it being unlikely he will live that long, and there being a pair of templars here anyway, to oversee the healing mage who is caring for him in his last days. But he is distraught, and in some pain, and may not be as... as diplomatic as he otherwise might be."

Zevran nodded. "I will take no offence at anything he says," he assured Teagan. "I suppose this means you will be his heir after all?"

"Yes," Teagan agreed, and grimaced. "And as he likes to remind me at least once a day, it means I really must get married and start producing more little Guerrins soon. Something I probably should have done years ago."

Zevran nodded. Teagan, he knew, had little interest in marriage or a family, and would have been quite contented to live out a bachelor existence in Rainesfere the remainder of his life. But he was also the sort of man to not neglect a duty, and if he was indeed going to become Arl of Redcliffe, than he would marry and beget heirs anyway.

Teagan took them to greet his brother, first of all. The Arl was seated in a chair near the fire, well-wrapped in blankets. He had always looked older than his years; now, though only a handful of years separated the two, he looked far more like Teagan's aged father than like his brother, hair gone white and already thinning, hands palsied, knuckles and other joints swollen, eyes watery and filled with pain.

"Bann Zevran," Arl Eamon said, bowing his head in acknowledgement of his presence, managing dignity despite his condition and rasping voice, then frowned fretfully at Fenris. "And who is this?"

"Arl Eamon," Zevran said respectfully, and gave him a very deep, sincere bow. In better times he might have added that little extra extravagance that made it more a subtle mockery than a display of real respect; he and the Arl had never made any particular effort to hide their dislike of each other, beyond concealing it in exquisite politeness. But the man was dying, and had been at least a minor power in this country most of his life; respect at such a time was suitable. "My companion, Lord Fenris of Brynhir."

"Brynhir? That's in Starkhaven, isn't it?" Arl Eamon asked, looking questioningly at Fenris.

Fenris bowed, as politely as Zevran had. "It is," he agreed.

Arl Eamon looked pleased. "In the south – fine vineyards, as I recall. You'd have been too young to remember it, Teagan; we stayed there a night, on the way from Markham to that tourney in Tantervale with young Lord Anselm, though he wasn't a lord yet at the time. A charming place, as I recall. Magnificent views."

Fenris smiled slightly, and bowed again, not quite so deeply. "That is indeed the place."

Arl Eamon's eyebrows rose slightly. "And the holding of an elf, now? You must be very high in Prince Vael's regard."

"Fenris has saved his life and honour a time or two," Zevran said casually, seeing Fenris' flush and knowing that he was not up to answering himself. They really must work on that, he felt; there would be those who reacted far more crassly to the idea of an elf holding lands and a proper title, as he knew well from his own experience, and Fenris must learn how to handle such. Not just here in Ferelden, where people had at least had a few years now to get used to the idea of an elf being a nobleman, but elsewhere too, where it could evoke quite strong disbelief and even open hostility.

"And where are you travelling to, in such terrible weather?" Arl Eamon asked curiously.

"Lord Fenris has a most magnificent stallion," Bann Teagan interjected. "He is seeking out any Ferelden horses that might be suitable to use to breed cold-hardiness into his stock."

"Yes, I hope to sell to Ferelden eventually," Fenris spoke up, more at ease on this subject than on almost any other. "Zevran had mentioned to me that there is a great need of good horses here, and being in the southern reaches of Starkhaven's territory as my lands are, I should easily be able to have horses taken south over the mountains to Kirkwall and shipped from there, rather than having to send them all the way down the Minanter by boat."

"An interesting idea," Arl Eamon agreed, sitting up a little straighter and looking intrigued. "And decent stock would fetch premium prices here; we see so few good horses being brought here, most merchants preferring to deal with Orlais over Ferelden, and Orlais' laws forcing them to chose only one of the two."

Fenris made a face. "I have little liking for the idea of selling to Orlais. I would be all too likely to see my own stock coming back under invading chevaliers, given their ambitions. Far better to sell to Ferelden instead."

Arl Eamon smiled. Zevran carefully concealed a smile of his own; Fenris' words had clearly met with Arl Eamon's approval. "Hah! I could wish other northern breeders thought as intelligently as you do. Have you two dined yet?" he asked. "I can have food brought to your rooms, if you would prefer to retire, but I would be delighted if you would join Teagan and I, and talked further about horses for a while."

Fenris bowed. "I would be honoured," he said.

"As would I," Zevran agreed, bowing as well. It was the first time he had ever been invited to join Arl Eamon at table when he wasn't merely being included within a group of other Ferelden nobles. An occasion to be enjoyed, especially given how unlikely it ever was to happen again.

It proved to be a surprisingly pleasant evening, Fenris' reserve with strangers vanishing in the light of his love of horses, a passion that both Guerrin brothers shared. After being told several times over the course of the meal of Arianblaidd, and how fine a horse he was, Arl Eamon insisted on going out to see the stallion for himself, despite the pain even such a brief walk caused him, and was suitably impressed by the horse. They stayed in the stables for a little while, Arl Eamon seated on a pile of hay bales while they discussed horses further. It was clear to Zevran that the Arl had tired himself with the walk out, and needed to recover his energy before they walked back, a fact everyone was very careful to ignore.

Eamon was leaning heavily on his brother's arm on the way back, and paused for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, giving them a look that could only be said to be one of dread. To Zevran's surprised delight, Fenris stepped to the Arl's other side and unobtrusively took his arm to support him as well, asking a question about the wine they'd been drinking earlier with their meal as he did so, as if that was his sole reason for moving closer. Arl Eamon gave him a slightly shocked look – clearly wavering on the border on how-dare-he – and then smiled thinly, and graciously answered, even managing to seem more pleased than surprised that the elf knew anything of wine at all.

Discovering that Fenris actually knew considerable about wine distracted him from his own discomfort enough to get them all back to the great hall, where Arl Eamon resumed his seat with a barely-concealed sigh of relief. And was pleased enough by Ari and Fenris and everything else to promptly send off a servant to fetch a couple of bottles of particularly fine vintages from his cellar, which they all spent some time sampling and discussing, most of the conversation being carried by Eamon and Fenris while Zevran and Teagan simply sipped their own glasses and listened, bemused by the pair.

It was clearly all very tiring for the Arl, however, and equally evident that he was in rapidly increasing pain. Teagan brought the evening to an early end, claiming tiredness on his own behalf, which Zevran hastily agreed with, pointing out that he and Fenris had been on the road all day.

"I'll see you to your rooms," Bann Teagan said, rising to his feet. "My own being not far from them. Brother, I'll join you and Rowan at breakfast tomorrow, if I may?"

"Of course," Arl Eamon said. He didn't rise – Zevran suspected that after his earlier efforts, he was now unable to, and would require the servants' help to get to his own bed – but contented himself with nodding deeply to the three of them. "Bann Zevran, do feel free to stay here while looking at any horses in the area you and your friend are interested in. Lord Fenris, a pleasure to have met you."

They both bowed deeply, and thanked him, before following Bann Teagan out of the room.

Bann Teagan was looking very pleased. "Thank you," he said, as he led the way upstairs to where the guest suites were. "I haven't seen my brother enjoy himself so much in far too long."

"It was our pleasure," Zevran assured him. "Will you be free to speak for a while tomorrow, after you've breakfasted with your brother?"

"Of course. Send word to my rooms when you're ready to receive guests, my valet will be there even if I'm not, and will see that I get the message when I return," he said, then, having reached the door to the suite the pair had been put in, they all said their farewells and Teagan continued on to his own rooms.

Zevran smiled warmly at Fenris the moment the door to their rooms was closed behind them. "You handled yourself just beautifully with Arl Eamon," he said approvingly.

Fenris flushed, and looked uncomfortable at the praise. "I have known his type before," he said. "Standing very much on their dignity, and requiring their importance be acknowledged. Though he is less objectionable than they."

"Ah. Magisters?" Zevran said, and stood there a moment, bemused by the thought of Arl Eamon as a Magister, then smiled and shrugged. "A failed one, perhaps. He never had the kind of power he wished, save very briefly, and even then had little sway. He has been disappointed in his ambitions for much of his life. Regardless, you have won him over, which is no small accomplishment. Now, why don't we go see what sort of bathing and sleeping facilities have been put at our disposal, and make use of them both."

Fenris smiled, a much warmer and more open smile. "Though not, I hope, for sleep just yet?"

Zevran grinned. "Though not for sleep just yet," he agreed.


	34. A Restful Day

They slept in late, and spent some time in the morning just enjoying being able to lie around in bed together, with nothing they absolutely had to get up and do just yet. Fenris spent some time braiding and unbraiding bits of Zevran's hair, which Zevran sound both amusing and enjoyable, especially after he'd squirmed around to where he could watch the absorbed expression on Fenris' face as he tried to make a smooth, even braid.

"It always looks so easy when you do it," Fenris complained mildly after another braid ended up lopsided and twisted.

"Practise," Zevran told him. "Many years of it."

They rose, eventually, and bathed together in the capacious tub in the bathing chamber attached to their suite, then rang for breakfast and ate it by the fire; fillets of some white-fleshed lake fish, just lightly smoked for flavour, bread still warm from the oven, with a choice of honey or strawberry jam to spread on it, and tea. Zevran opted to have his bread plain, soaking up the delicious juices from his fish with it, while Fenris ignored the fish and ate only bread, spreading so much honey on it that it was dripping off onto his fingers, necessitating him to lick them clean.

"You're doing that on purpose," Zevran scolded, and the next time some dripped, captured Fenris' hand and licked it off himself, while giving the other elf a smouldering look. Fenris laughed, then leaned over and kissed him, tasting of honey and tea. After which Zevran complacently finished off Fenris' pieces of fish, not wanting any of it to go to waste.

He sent word to Bann Teagan's room that the pair of them were ready to receive guests at any time, and then they settled down to checking over their gear, Fenris frowning as he examined his dragonbone greatsword before carefully rubbing it down with an oiled cloth, Zevran setting out an array of small knives on a table beside his own chair before beginning to methodically clean and sharpen each one in turn.

It wasn't too long of a wait until Teagan arrived, Zevran showing him in and waving for him to take a seat before resuming work on his dagger. "King Alistair told me the true reason for your journey west, of course," Teagan said right away. "Given the nearness of the my own lands to the area in question, he thought it would be useful for me to be in the know, especially after he decided to recruit me into helping provide the public story as to why you two are travelling into the mountains at what's pretty much the worst time of year to do so."

Zevran nodded. "I could wish for far better timing, that is true. Unfortunately it cannot wait until spring. Have you heard anything relevant to our interests since arriving here?"

Teagan grimaced. "No, I only arrived here two days ago myself. I haven't had time to make any enquiries. At least not discrete ones, and I'm assuming you'd prefer I not make any indiscreet ones."

Zevran looked up from his work long enough to flash a brief grin at Teagan. "That would be correct. One can never be sure just exactly where Orlais may or may not have agents. Best to make no show of special interest if it can be avoided."

Teagan nodded. "Do you plan to stay here long, or push on immediately? I'll be continuing on to Rainesfere myself in another few days; it might help your cover story if you travel there with me."

Zevran grimaced. "As much as I would prefer to continue on directly, I think you are right. Fenris and I will need to make a show of looking at horses in the area before moving on. One of your brother's banns has a breeding operation a little southwest of here, I believe?"

"Bann Jorelle, yes. Light horses mostly, decent for fast light riders but not so much for armoured men. The showy ones get sold to nobles as riding horses; my own is one of her breeding, actually. The plainer stock is mostly bought by the army for messengers and light mounted units."

Fenris nodded. "We will go take a look."

"Do you think Arl Eamon would be willing to write us a letter of introduction? I suspect we will get a warmer welcome if we have such than if we do not," Zevran pointed out.

"Of course; let me arrange it for you," Teagan said. "Though I think one sight of Ari would be enough to gain you entry to almost any reputable horse breeder's farm."

Fenris smiled. Zevran grinned. "If you can get us the letter, we will go tomorrow then, assuming the weather holds," he said. "How far is it? Should we plan on an overnight stay?"

"Do you have a map? I'll show you. If the roads aren't too bad you can make it there and back in one day, though it doesn't leave you much time to actually look at the horses. I'll suggest Arl Eamon ask her to extend her hospitality to you, if you'd like."

"Thank you, that would be most helpful. And yes, I have maps," Zevran said, and went and fetched them from his baggage.

Bann Teagan marked the location of the farm, and gave them some useful information about likely road conditions, including marking a couple of places where they might find shelter if the weather changed for the worse while they were still out there. After which he excused himself, promising to speak to Arl Eamon at lunch about the requisite letter.

"Well, what shall we do with the remainder of today?" Fenris asked, once they'd finished caring for their weapons and other gear, and eaten lunch, baked squash hollowed out and filled with a mix of the flesh of the squash, chopped onions, cubes of apple, spices, and finely minced pork and then baked again. Fenris, having breakfasted so lightly, ate all of his and a small share of Zevran's as well.

"We could walk down to the village, perhaps. There is not a great deal to see there, but it has been some time since I was last here and I wouldn't mind seeing how it has changed in the rebuilding."

Fenris nodded, and the two elves dressed warmly, and left the castle, Zevran stopping to chat briefly with a maid and two different guards that he knew from previous visits. None were actually informants of his, but he found it best to speak to many different people, so that no one person would stand out. And talking to the second guard kept him in line of sight of someone who _was _an informant long enough for them to signal that they had nothing of interest to pass on.

The walk down to the village was pleasant, the air being cold but not bitterly so, and the path having been cleared since the night before. The bridge just past the windmill was not pleasant – it stood too close to the falls, and accumulated ice from spray until the weather grew cold enough to encase the waterfall in a sheathe of ice – but it had been recently sprinkled with gravel and sand to improve the footing, and at least was not dangerous to cross.

"Let's drop in at the tavern for a drink," Zevran suggested, and led the way to it.

With few of the fishermen being out today, the tavern was busy, Lloyd behind the bar serving the crowd, two harried-looking barmaids delivering the drinks to tables. A set of crude mail hung on the wall behind the bar, with sets of nasty-looking darkspawn weapons hung up elsewhere in the bar as decoration, souvenirs of the Blight year. Lloyd glanced their way as the two elves entered, then suddenly grinned widely as he recognized the elf. "Bann Zevran!" he called out in a deep, carrying voice. "We haven't seen you in these parts in far too long."

Zevran smiled, nodding at a few familiar faces in the crowd as he walked over to the bar. "Just Zevran will do, for an old friend such as yourself," he said. Not that Lloyd was actually any real friend, but it delighted the man to be able to talk about how he knew Bann Zevran, had fought in the Blight War with the hero and her companions at Redcliffe, and making him happy certainly didn't hurt anything. Especially when the man brewed a particularly fine ale, and always served it to Zevran for free in thanks for that particularly memorable night of fighting.

"This is my friend, Fenris," Zevran told him, and Lloyd immediately drew a second ale for him, booming out how any friend of Bann Arainai's must be his friend too. Fenris looked moderately startled, but accepted and sipped his ale politely, a pleasantly surprised look crossing his face after he'd sampled it.

"So how have things been in the village of late?" Zevran asked, leaning on the counter, and listening while Lloyd promptly ran over every bit of gossip that had been heard in the village since the summer. Zevran made mental note of a few interesting tidbits, but otherwise just sipped his ale, smiled a lot, and made all the appropriate noises in all the right places to keep Lloyd talking. "You seem to be doing well," Zevran said once Lloyd had wound down, gesturing at the busy tavern. "Two bar maids now! Whatever happened to that redheaded girl? Bella?" A question of some interest to him, Bella being one of his more reliable informants in the area.

Lloyd made a face. "She's moved on. Finally fulfilled her dream of marrying up; hooked herself the fourth son of Bann Gerard, when the Bann was here over the summer to discuss some issue with the Arl. Normally you wouldn't think a fourth son wouldn't be all that great of a catch, but word is with several bannorns going begging for new banns once the current holders die, he might be in line to inherit something. Supposedly he had a great-great-aunt who married well, before the occupation, and a couple of her descendants have no heirs of their own after the Blight year. Even if he doesn't end up landed, marrying the son of a bann is still better than marrying a farmer or fisher, Bella said."

"Well, I wish her luck and joy in her marriage then," Zevran said, lifting his cup in a toast. "No, that is enough for me," he said when Lloyd moved to refill it. "I wanted to show Fenris more of the village while we were here. Perhaps we'll drop in again another day."

Lloyd grinned. "Well, you know you're always welcome under my roof. Good to have seen you again, Bann Zevran."

"And you, my friend," Zevran said, nodding his head to him before leading Fenris back outside. "Not much in the way of good wine here, outside of the Arl's cellars, but Lloyd does brew a quite nice ale."

Fenris nodded. "Surprisingly pleasant, yes," he agreed. "What shall we go look at next?"

"Hrmm... there is not actually all that much to see. A couple of shops, the chantry, the lake itself. Picturesque at some times of year, but not so much right now."

"The chantry, perhaps?"

"Of course," Zevran said, and smiled as he started down the hill. "That was where I first ever met Bann Teagan, organizing the defence of the village," he said, and launched into the story of that encounter, and the night that followed. They reached the chantry before he finished, but remained outside while he gestured around the small square in front of it, indicating where barricades had been, and where certain key fights had taken place and the like. "We somehow got through the night without anyone dying. I wish I could say things had gone as well when we entered the castle the next day. But that is a story for another time."

The pair of them entered the chantry. The chantry was almost empty, it being the wrong time of day for a mass, apart from a lay sister making her way around the nave to replace candles that had burned too low with fresh ones. She gave them a single, incurious glance and otherwise ignored them.

"These are new," Zevran said, looking with interest at the rows of pews that filled the space. "When I was last here, it was still the old style; one had to stand for services."

Fenris nodded, and walked forward a few rows, then took a seat. Zevran moved to sit beside him, both of them praying quietly for a few minutes. Zevran was not a particularly fervent believer, he tended to look upon prayer as falling into the category of things that it might not help to do, but which likely couldn't hurt either. He realized he wasn't exactly sure where Fenris fell on the scale of belief, though that he was praying said he probably had at least some religious inclination. Or perhaps was merely being polite. He'd have to ask him, but later, now was hardly a politic time and place for it.

"It seems a very large and fine chantry for such a small village," Fenris said, looking around interestedly after finishing his prayers.

"Yes, it is. Apparently the story goes that most Orlesians who held Redcliffe Castle during the occupation came to bad ends in fairly short order. In the 70-odd years where this was part of Orlais, there was something like ten or eleven different Arls named to the seat. Anyway, one of them – the fourth or fifth, I think – decided that the answer was to build a much finer chantry here than the original one, which had suffered damage in the invasion and never properly been repaired. Whether he intended it more as a bribe to the Maker or to the villagers or both I have no idea. Who knows, it may even have been a sincerely devout decision. He lived long enough to see it built and dedicated, and his eldest son married in it a decade later, and then apparently choked on a fish bone at the wedding feast. The longest reigning of all the Orlesian Arls."

"And the newly married son?" Fenris asked curiously.

"Didn't last out the year. So the castle passed on to yet another family after that."

Fenris smiled, looking amused. "How do you know all these stories?"

Zevran shrugged. "I enjoy knowing things. About people, about places... it's amazing how much you can learn about a place just by standing the older inhabitants to a round of drinks or two some evening. Not all of it is useful information, of course, but it's usually interesting, at least."

They walked down to the waterfront after that, and stood on a wide rock shelf slanting out into the waters, just looking at the lake. The waters seemed very black and still, only the faintest of breezes ruffling the surface of the water.

"The fishermen sometimes pull strange creatures out of this lake," Zevran remarked after a while. "Giant silver-grey eels as long as the castle bridge have been seen, or things all covered in poisonous spines and warts, or that glow strangely in the dark. They say it's because of Kinloch Hold, at the far end of the late – the mage circle. That the mages dump failed experiments and potions into the lake, and it affects the fish. Though a Dalish once told me that according to their legends there were strange creatures in this lake even before humans came to this land, so it may just be that the lake itself breeds them. Much of this end of it is shallow enough to see bottom on a clear still day, with many rocks and sand bars breaking the surface; good fishing all throughout it. But there is said to be an area out in the middle of the lake whose depth has never been measured, where even the longest lines dropped go down and down without ever finding anything."

"Except strange fish," Fenris said.

"Yes. Except those. I saw the fishermen bring one in once, a great flat thing that looked like something meant to fly in water. It reminded me a little of a fish that can sometimes be found in Tialto Bay, that is much prized for the tastiness of its flesh, which bury themselves on their side in the bottom muck, and have both eyes on the same side of their head, so they may lie thus in hiding and still see anything that approaches that they wish to either eat or flee from. Except I never saw one of those larger than my outspread arms, and the thing brought in here was so large and most of its body so thin that it could be rolled up like a carpet around the thicker core of the central body. When they spread it out to look at, it covered almost this entire shelf of rock. Its mouth was very large, and very full of sharp teeth; no bottom-hiding thing."

"I would not want to swim in a lake with such creatures in it," Fenris said.

Zevran grinned. "They don't. Except occasionally, during very hot weather, they will venture out in very shallow areas, where they can see if there is anything other than themselves about. But mostly they stay out of the water."

They fell silent for a while again, Zevran watching the lake, Fenris looking up at the castle perched on its offshore island, dominating the skyline. "It's very different here than in Tevinter," he said after a while, and then shivered. "And not just because it's so damnably cold."

Zevran laughed. "And this a mild winter day. You will hate it when it gets truly cold. But come, let us return to the castle, this seems like an excellent day to spend the afternoon relaxing by the fire, especially if we're going to be out riding around again tomorrow."

Fenris nodded, and they started back up the hill.

"In what way in particular is it different?" Zevran asked as they walked.

"Oh. The people... they are not frightened. No one is, that I have seen."

"Not even Theo and Gerty?" Zevran asked, amused.

"They were cautious, wary even, but not truly frightened. If we had been in Tevinter, peasants such as they would have been terrified by armed men such us; they would have bowed and scraped and done their best to please up, hoping only that we would leave without tormenting or killing them. Fereldans are not frightened in that way. They are not scared to speak, even to speak out against their own lords, it seems. They might somewhat fear their lord's displeasure, but they do not live in terror of his slightest whim."

"Ah. Yes, you are right in that. Ferelden is an interesting land; it has peasants and sharecroppers, not peons or serfs, and being Andraste's birthplace and only briefly in the hands of the Tevinter Magisters, they are quite disinclined to slavery here. More, they have this Landsmeet of theirs, and their kings and queens rule not by right of blood – though practically speaking they have almost all been descendants of King Calenhad – but by the consent of their nobles. And by-and-large they treat their peasants well, or at least don't actively mistreat them, because the peasants can and will withhold their labour or even leave if they dislike their lord enough. It is very rare that it happens, but a noble who is known to be losing excessive numbers of his peasantry to his neighbours can find himself facing censure at the next Landsmeet, possibly even being required to step down in favour of some less objectionable relative if there is sufficient evidence of, shall we say _instability_, against them."

"That they're barking mad, you mean."

Zevran grinned. "Yes, though as dog-happy as Fereldans are, it's not the barking that upsets them so much as the mad. Naturally this does not mean that there is no abuse, it just means that when it does occur it is mostly on a very small scale and kept very quiet. I suppose it also helps that in living memory Ferelden has had the example of such madmen as the usurper King Meghren, who was known to beat servants to death over even minor faults, and dealt quite harshly with any noble whose loyalty he felt was in doubt. Many of the chevaliers in his service took that as a general license to treat the Fereldan peasantry however they pleased. A population with less of a tradition of independence might have been cowed by such treatment, but in Ferelden it merely made them all the more likely to revolt. Nobles and peasants alike wished the Orlesians gone from their lands."

Fenris smiled slightly. "And they succeeded."

"Yes, though not until much blood was spilled on both sides. But the hatred of Ferelden for the Orlesians was so high that during the rebellion they lost almost their entire army not just once, but twice, and still carried on to eventually defeat and drive them out. So... an interesting country, and an interesting people. Very different than anywhere in the north, yes."

They reached the castle bridge by then, and ended their conversation until they were back in their rooms, where they found a note from Teagan with the letter of introduction they'd requested enclosed, and saying that Arl Eamon sent them his regrets that he was feeling too unwell to invite them to dine with him again this evening. Which Zevran would have taken as Eamon have returned to his habitual dislike of elves and distancing himself from them again, except Teagan said Eamon had also expressed a hope that he'd be feeling well enough to dine with them after they returned from their trip.

"Interesting," Zevran said, and then smiled at Fenris. "Well, since we will be busy travelling tomorrow, and likely the next day as well, I suggest we perhaps take full advantage of having a large bed, privacy, and no pressing need to be anywhere else."

Fenris' lips twitched into a brief smile. "That sounds like an acceptable plan," he agreed. "You mentioned relaxing by the fire, earlier," he added, a gleam in his eye,

Zevran smiled broadly. "So I did," he agreed.


	35. Wandering in Redcliffe

The journey to view the horses at Bann Jorelle's farm went, on the whole, quite well. The guards at her gate were initially hesitant to let the two elves enter, until Zevran displayed the letter they bore with Arl Eamon's seal on it. And then her doorkeeper was loathe to let them in to deliver the letter to her, insisting they should give it to him and then depart, ignoring anything Zevran was trying to tell him about the letter regarding the pair of them.

Bann Jorelle herself showed up, leaning heavily on a cane and the arm of a dark-haired young man. "Don't be an ass, Hurley," she commanded in a voice that was surprisingly loud and carrying from such a slight and elderly woman. "Bann Zevran, a pleasure to meet you at last. Is that delightful horse I spied outside yours?"

"My companion's mount," Zevran said, giving Bann Jorelle a deep bow. "Might I introduce Lord Fenris of Brynhir in Starkhaven to you?"

"Pleased to meet you," she said, and looked at Fenris as searchingly as if he was a horse she was evaluating, before nodding down the stairs to where their horses waited. "That's one of the royal greys or I'll eat my best saddle. Haven't seen one since I was in the Free Marches during the rebellion. Would love to have had a horse with the right traits to breed for that colouration here, but I'm lucky to have any stock worth speaking of, between _Orlesians _and darkspawn. May I take a closer look at him?"

"Of course," Fenris agreed, and the group of them went down the stairs together.

"My heir, Joren," Jorelle introduced the young man helping her as they descended.

Zevran exchanged a nod with the young man. Her grandson, he knew, and almost the only family left to her. She'd been sent north to the Free Marches with her four youngest children to keep them safe during the rebellion. Her husband had died in the debacle at West Hill, and the two eldest children had been killed as well, one at River Dane and the other in some unnamed minor skirmish. The north had proven to be little less safe for Jorelle's children, though there it was a summer fever that took Jorelle's two youngest. Of the remaining children, a boy and a girl, the eldest – the daughter – had later died after giving birth to Joren, her only child, and the son had been slain by darkspawn during the blight, leaving behind a pregnant young wife who'd birthed twin girls, who were being raised by her in her father's household. He, having lost all his other children during the Blight except for the daughter, had named her and the first-born of the pair his heirs.

Jorelle looked over the horse minutely, making sounds of approval. "I doubt you want to sell him," she said, and sighed, looking at him with obvious envy.

"No, but I do plan to sell his children," Fenris told her.

After which they handed over Arl Eamon's letter of introduction, and were subsequently shown about the farm by Joren, who was almost as enthusiastic about the beasts as his great-grandmother was, and much more mobile than she was. They dined with the pair that evening, the conversation staying mostly to horses.

Fenris had decided he wanted to purchase one of the horses from here after all, a young stallion who, while of a smaller type than the size he intended to concentrate on breeding, had excellent conformation and the cold-hardiness he was looking for, as well as a good temperament, a lovely bay colouration, and a very pleasant gait. It would not hurt to breed some horses for day to day riding, after all, rather than just the larger war horses capable of carrying an armoured man, and the stallion could always be bred to bigger mares to increase the size of its offspring. Zevran did much of the negotiating, arranging for the stallion to be shipped north in the spring, with half the payment to made to Bann Jorelle now, and the other half to be left in trust with the Guerrin brothers. That would be handed over once the horse had been put on a ship to be conveyed to Kirkwall, where Viscount Aveline could be trusted to both receive it, and see it was sent on to Fenris' estate with her next northbound courier.

They stayed the night, and were seen off after a very large breakfast the next morning by a smiling Bann Jorelle, who said good-bye to the stallion for almost longer than she did to the two elves. "A beauty," she said, and sighed enviously again. "I doubt I'll be alive to buy one of his children, but I'm sure Joren will want to once you have enough stock to being selling to the south," she said, and smiled warmly at her heir, who smiled back and agreed.

Farewells having been made all round, they headed back to Redcliffe Castle, pleased with the outcome of their side trip.

* * *

They arrived back in Redcliffe in plenty of time to wash and change and rest for a little from their ride before joining Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan for dinner again. This time there was an additional presence at the table, a solemn-eyed young girl, with long straight hair of an unremarkable dusty brown shade, and eyes of green-flecked hazel. She had, Zevran thought, inherited the Guerrin nose, and he wondered if she would grow into it, or curse it later in life.

Despite her youth – she was only six or seven years of age – Rowan had excellent manners, and when introduced to the two elves exchanged polite greetings with them, bowing to just the right degree for their relative stations. She sat and ate quietly and neatly, listening to the conversation of the adults – mostly discussing the elves' trip to Bann Jorelle's estate – her eyes moving from face to face, seemingly interested in their talk.

"Teagan has mentioned you'll be continuing on to Rainesfere with him?" Arl Eamon enquired toward the end of the meal.

"Indeed. Safer to travel together than alone, and as he's offered to let us stay at his estate before continuing further westwards, we are most pleased to accept," Zevran said, nodding courteously toward Teagan.

"I shall miss your company, Uncle Teagan," Rowan spoke up softly, earning fond smiles from both father and uncle.

"As I shall miss yours," Teagan assured her. "I doubt I will be gone too long, but there are things I should put in order at Rainesfere before returning here."

"When will you be departing?" Eamon asked.

Teagan shrugged, then looked to Zevran and Fenris. "I am ready to leave any time in the next few days. Would you two prefer to rest a day or two, or set out tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow would likely be best," Zevran said. "The weather may not hold, and it will likely only get worse for some time yet to some."

Teagan and Eamon both agreed with that. "Tomorrow morning then," Teagan said. "And we will hope the weather continues fair for our ride west."

* * *

They departed with Teagan the next day, after a hearty breakfast in their own room. Arl Eamon was feeling poorly again and said his farewells to Teagan privately. Rowan, however, came down to the stables to see them off herself, her nurse and a templar guard in tow.

"You will be back soon, Uncle?" she asked Teagan touch anxiously.

He smiled warmly at her. "I promise I will be back as soon as I can. And I will be here when it is time for you to move to the tower, and will go there with you to see you properly settled in. It will be good to see your brother Connor again, too."

Rowan nodded, though Zevran guessed from her lack of response that she knew little of her brother, he having been taken off to the tower before her birth. He wondered if the boy had ever been allowed a visit home, if the siblings had ever met at all, or if Rowan would only be getting to meet and know him at all once she herself was immured in the tower as well.

Uncle and niece hugged, then Rowan retreated out of the way, standing and watching as they finished checking their tack and gear before mounting up. Teagan smiled and waved at Rowan as they moved out, and she waved back, looking a little forlorn.

"Your niece seems to be a rather lonely child," Zevran remarked as they started across the bridge.

"I suppose she is," Teagan agreed, frowning slightly. "Eamon has, I think, protected her too much at times; she has had no real playmates, no real friends, certainly not of anyone her own age. After what happened with Connor, the servants and villagers were too frightened to have allowed their own children to play with Rowan, even if Eamon had been willing to allow it. As much as she fears going to the tower, I sometimes think it is for the best; at least there she will have a chance to be just a child among other children, ones who do not fear her for her powers, having magic of their own. And she will have a chance at last to come to know her brother better."

"They have not seen much of each other, then?"

Teagan snorted. "They have seen nothing of each other at all, really. Connor was allowed a brief visit to Redcliffe – heavily escorted – after his mother's death, to be here for the scattering of her ashes. He saw Rowan then, but of course she was just an infant. So... no, they don't really know each other at all, beyond whatever stories they've heard of each other. I have told Rowan what I could of Connor, so she will at least know a little about him when they meet, as I knew some little about my sister even while growing up in the Free Marches. Enough to not think her entirely a stranger when I was brought back, anyway."

"Where in the Free Marches were you?" Fenris asked.

"Oh, mostly Markham, where our own grandmother had come from, and we had relatives. Though as Eamon mentioned we did travel occasionally. Mostly I was too young; I was still in the nursery when we were sent north. Eamon was seven years older than I, so he served as a page and a squire in the north, and was knighted when he returned south. I began as a page in the north, then served in King Maric's court as a squire, at least until Eamon recovered Redcliffe and named me as one of his Banns."

"You weren't knighted, then?"

"No," Teagan said, and smiled, looking amused. "I am a Bann, and can casually be addressed as ser, but I not due the true Ser of a knight."

Fenris snorted softly. "Titles," he said, a faint tone of disgust in his voice.

Zevran grinned. "They serve a purpose," he pointed out. "And now you have one as well, which you must get used to. Not only to the having of it, but to the using of it."

"I did not wish a title. It was Sebastian who decided I should have one," Fenris pointed out.

"It gives you a nice place to live, does it not?"

"I... yes, it does," Fenris admitted reluctantly. "He could have given me the estate without the title."

"A title is also a message. And in this case, it makes it clear to his nobles that he values you; that he sees you as their equal. That he will not tolerate anyone mistreating or casually disposing of you. You are a Lord of Starkhaven, and then means you are now a powerful person, whether you like it or not, the same way that I have power, however minor – and duty, and responsibilities – since becoming Bann of Blackmarsh."

"And I, as Bann of Rainesfere," Teagan agreed.

"It is likely also reassuring to the other nobles that you now have a title," Zevran continued. "There were many who were uncertain of me before I became a Bann; I had too much influence, they thought, too much of the ear of both Soria and Alistair. When Soria named me a Bann, some of them saw me as _less_ of a threat to their own prerogatives than I had been before; I now fit into the category of people who are _supposed_ to be able to gain the attention of my Arl, or speak with my King. They are much more comfortable with what power I have now, even if my being an elf is still upsetting to some."

"They will have to get used to it, especially since Alistair plans to name a second elven Bann at the next Landsmeet," Teagan said.

"He is? He failed to mention it to me," Zevran said, sounding almost offended. "For the alienage? Shianni?"

"Yes, for the alienage, though not Shianni. Alistair has spoken with her at some length, he told me, and in the end decided that her anger towards humans is still too much for her to be able to work well within the Landsmeet; someone more capable of diplomacy would be wiser. He discussed it with her, and she agreed; together they arrived at a compromise. Soris will be named as the Bann of the Alienage. He is in training to be their next... _hahren_, I think the word is?" He paused a moment, and continued after Zevran nodded agreement. "So he will be both hahren and Bann, and the title of Bann will pass, not to any heir of Soris himself, but instead to whomever is next named as hahren. The other nobles of Ferelden will likely accept that with less opposition, since they will see it merely as Alistair recognizing the existing leader of the elves and giving him a seat in the Landsmeet, rather than as creating another noble line that is elven, as was done with yourself."

Zevran nodding, looking pleased. "An excellent solution, yes. And perhaps in time Fereldans will come to more easily accept the idea of elven nobility."

Teagan glanced briefly at Fenris, then turned his attention back to Zevran. "I suspect you must be finding yourself in much the same position as I am now; needing to father an heir so that your line does not end," he said quietly.

Zevran did not glance at Fenris before answering, instead focusing his attention on the road ahead of them. "I suppose all three of us are in that position," he agreed, voice almost pointedly neutral.

Fenris snorted softly. "I suppose we are," he said reluctantly.

"You have no relative to whom Brynhir might be passed, then?" Teagan asked curiously.

"No. There is a sister, but I have no wish to see anything of mine go to her. The last time we saw one another, she was conspiring to have me enslaved again."

"Enslaved? _Again?_" Teagan sounded startled.

That effectively changed the subject for some time, Fenris spending the next few hours talking about what little he remembered of his past, and of his time in Kirkwall. Bann Teagan was fascinated by his history, and to Zevran's surprise Fenris seemed quite willing to speak of it, avoiding his usual reticence on the subject. Though perhaps that wasn't entirely surprising; there was something about Teagan that made people want to share confidences with him. Even Zevran himself had done so once or twice, talking more honestly of events in his past – even painful ones – than he had with almost anyone else, make Teagan one of a scant handful of people who were aware of all the ugly details of Zevran's own history.

It was a skill Zevran wished he himself possessed; oh, he had enough charm and skill to usually draw out any information he happened to particularly wish to know, but he had to work at it. People just told Teagan things, with little in the way of prompting. He suspected it was because of a characteristic Teagan had that not everyone did, and Zevran knew was not among his own attributes; he _liked_ people. He was genuinely interested in almost everyone he met, and it showed. Almost invariably people responded by being far more open with him than they might otherwise be.

So Zevran sat back and listened, amused to hear Teagan drawing stories out of Fenris, some of which the other elf hadn't ever yet told _him_. It helped to pass the time, as they slowly rode west and then north around the shore of the lake, following the old Imperial Highway for much of the morning, before finally turning off onto a lesser road that went down a ramp on the eastern side of the road to a small village – a hamlet, really – crowded into the narrow slope between the path of the highway and the lake shore. The road curved through a handful of buildings, an even narrower offshoot leading downhill to the lone dock the hamlet possessed, before turning again and passing under the highway. After that it straggled back and forth through the forested slopes and foothills of the mountains, one offshoot eventually passing through Rainesfere before heading even higher up into the mountains.

"There's a decent inn here," Teagan said. "Why don't we stop for lunch."

"Hot food that we don't have to prepare for ourselves sounds like an excellent choice," Zevran agreed, and then frowned across the lake, toward the eastern horizon. "It looks like we may see some weather this afternoon," he said, pointing out where a dark bank of clouds was visible.

Teagan studied the sky for a moment, then nodded. "I fear you may be right. But it will be some hours yet before that reaches us; we should be able to make Rainesfere tonight safely."

Zevran nodded, and the three headed to the inn.


	36. A Night of Shelter

They lingered over their meal perhaps a little longer than they should have, both Zevran and Teagan liking their food and enjoying talking Fereldan politics while they ate. Fenris did not enjoy the meal as much as they did; the menu ran heavily to fish, and he had little to no idea of who the people they spoke of were, or what the issues they were discussing meant. As a consequence, he was feeling a little disgruntled by the time they left the inn.

The distant clouds had moved much closer while they ate. Zevran and Teagan both frowned at the sky. "Should we stay, or go?" Zevran asked.

Teagan pressed his lips together, brow furrowing, then shrugged. "Go, I'd say. That looks like it'll be rather a nasty storm once it arrives; I'd rather have to push through the start of it to reach Rainesfere than be stuck here for what might be several days."

Zevran nodded thoughtfully. "I would agree with that. And if we find we must stop, we are at least well-equipped for it."

Teagan smiled. "That we are," he agreed.

They retrieved their mounts and continued on their way, pushing the pace a little to make as much distance as they could before the storm arrived. They talked little, too busy watching the road to make sure they kept their horses to safe footing. A slick patch, a hole, either could spell injury or even death for the animals.

Fenris' irritation subsided, lost in his enjoyment of travel. The terrain was interesting; he'd thought the Frostbacks would be much like the Vimmark mountains, but they were not, rearing significantly higher into the sky, sheer cliffs of stone showing here and there through their coating of snow. "They must be covered with snow year round," he remarked to Zevran, marvelling at their height, and knowing that the tallest peaks of the Vimmark Mountains were snow-capped even in the hottest summer weather.

It was Bann Teagan who answered, turning to look back over his shoulder at the two elves. "They are; not just snow, either, there are places up in the peaks where there are vast areas of ice. Glaciers, they're called. The mountain-folk claim they flow like rivers, but very slowly. I have been high enough to see one once, years ago; the edge of it was all fractured and melting, and yet my guide told me that the last time he had been there, the edge had been some distance uphill."

"Interesting. I would like to see that some time."

"As would I," agreed Zevran. "But not, I hope, on this trip."

It grew dark early, between the season, the mountains to their west, and the clouds rapidly filling the sky. And with the clouds came snow; heavy snow that only became thicker and more wind-driven as time passed, so that they needed to make use of a torch to find their way, as he and Zevran had needed to when caught in the storm they'd encountered on their way to Redcliffe. Fenris was not particularly worried at first; Teagan seemed to know his way, even with the reduced visibility, and neither he nor Zevran seemed overly concerned about the worsening conditions; they had, after all, expected to be overtaken by the storm before reaching Rainesfere.

Teagan eventually pulled his horse to a stop and turned it in circles, peering around while shielding his face from the blowing snow. There was little to be seen now, just darkness and snow and the merest suggestions of trees to either side of them.

"Is something the matter?" Zevran called out as he kneed his horse closer to Teagan's, Fenris following suit so that he too could hear what was said.

Teagan moved closer to them before answering. "No... only that we are not as far as I thought we would be by now, and the snow is still worsening. I fear we will not make Rainesfere tonight after all."

Zevran frowned, then nodded, and shrugged. "Shall we find a place to make camp then?"

"I don't think that will be necessary... if we're where I think we are, there should be a fork in the road somewhere ahead, and a village just a mile or so off the main road."

"And if we're not where you think we are?" Zevran asked, looking amused.

Teagan smiled. "Then we may be making use of your camping gear after all. I'd suggest we dismount and lead our horses, this snow is making the footing dangerous for riding, and that way I can keep a better eye out for the side road."

Zevran nodded. The three men dismounted, and continued on at as best speed as they could, Teagan still in the lead, then Fenris in the middle with his and Zevran's horses, and Zevran bringing up the rear with the pack beasts and a second torch.

It seemed both oddly peaceful and strangely frightening at the same time. Some gusts of wind were so strong that Fenris found himself feeling like he might be knocked off his feet, and so snow-laden that he sometimes lost sight of Teagan and his horse, only the rapidly-filling marks of their passage in the snow preventing him from losing them entirely. And yet for all the force of the wind, it was strangely quiet; the snow dampened sounds, even the sound of the wind in the trees seeming muted and distant, the crunch of the snow under his feet more felt than heard.

There was just the wind, and the snow, the groove in it he was following, regular glimpses of a horse's tail and back, the glow of the torch ahead of him. Sometimes the snow momentarily thinned enough for him to actually see Bann Teagan, hunched against the wind with one hand holding up the wind-blown torch. It began to feel like they had been walking like this for hours, for ages, like they would continue walking forever and never see anything but snow, trees, snow.

He almost walked into the hind end of Teagan's horse; the man had stopped, and was turned looking back, waiting for him and Zevran. They gathered close together again, surrounded by their horses and mules.

"Are we lost?" Zevran asked as soon as he'd joined them.

Teagan shook his head, lips twitching into a crooked smile. "No. I know this road too well to get lost along it. This is the turn-off; I wanted to be sure you didn't miss it, in all this snow. We'll be there soon."

The road he led them onto was clearly a much narrower one than the road they'd been following; little more than a well-cleared track, trees often close enough to either side that outstretched arms would have brushed against their branches. At least it made following it easy, and they were travelling at an angle to the wind now, with the heavy growth to either side creating an area of relative calm. The snow was more than shin deep and undisturbed; it must have been some time since anyone had last passed this way. He remembered Zevran telling him about places that were largely unreachable in winter, unless one knew how to travel on foot through deep snow. There were tools to help with that, the elf had explained, to keep the traveller on top of the snow rather than sinking deep into it. He hadn't really understood the need for such when Zevran had been describing them; snow was light stuff, wasn't it? But now he did; the snow was tiring to walk through, worse than wading through water or walking across soft sand, though like sand it had the same lack of stability underfoot, making his footing seem uncertain. And he at least had an already-trampled area to walk through; how much worse, how much more tiring must it be, for Bann Teagan, who was plowing his way steadily through the unbroken snow.

At least the illusion of eternal travel did not return; in fact it seemed if anything a surprisingly short time before the trees suddenly receded to either side, the narrow road entering a clearing. And just as suddenly changed from unbroken snow to an area that had obviously been shovelled clear at some point, with banks to either side of it, and dark, snow-draped humps the size of small cottages to either side. The size of small cottages because they _were_ cottages, he realized, cottages with sharply sloped roofs that reached right down to the ground, the roofs covered with snow. The road turned; there was a larger house there, and Bann Teagan stopped to knock on the door. There was a muffled call from within, the wind snatching the sound away before Fenris could hear what was said.

"Travellers, in search of shelter," Teagan called back to whomever was inside. "We can pay."

Another muffled call.

"Three of us, with nine horses and mules."

The door opened quite suddenly, firelight spilling out to dye the snow near the door a warm yellow colour. A woman stood there, back-lit by the light, a quilt clutched around her shoulders, leaning out the door to look at them. "_Nine_ horses? Maker... so there is," she exclaimed, then turned her head to look more closely at the man standing at her elbow. "Andraste's tits! You're Bann Teagan!"

Teagan smiled. "Yes, I'm afraid I am."

She snorted, and smiled at him with surprising warmth. "We'll find room for you all," she said stoutly. "Though I'm not sure where we can fit nine horses."

* * *

Somewhere that many horses and mules could be fit turned out to be a neighbour's shed, for the two mules, and inside the village's forge, for the horses. It was a well-made building, and their hostess lit a small fire in the forge to take the chill off the air. "There's enough room in my house for the three of you," she told them. "Well, my uncle's house really, but he won't mind the company; he won't even notice," she said, sounding saddened.

"He is unwell?" Teagan asked, as they followed her back to her house, carrying some of their packs with them, the rest having been left piled in a corner of the forge.

"Yes," she answered. "Since the spring. My brother and I came to stay with him, and to run the forge until he got better, but..." She shrugged. "It doesn't look like he's going to get any better."

"Run the forge? Your brother is a blacksmith then?" Teagan asked curiously as they entered the house, setting down their packs and stripping off their cloaks.

She laughed. "No, I am. Bevin helps out, working the bellows and doing some of the heavy lifting, but it's me that mostly does the making," she explained as she stripped off her own heavy woollen shawl and the quilted coat she'd worn underneath. Fenris had thought the coat was bulky with padding; it turned out to be her own broad shoulders and well-muscled arms that had filled it out. Looking at her, he could easily believe that she was a blacksmith; she certainly had the muscles for such heavy work.

"Have you eaten yet?" she asked.

"Not since our midday meal," Teagan responded.

"I've soup made; I keep a pot of it on so that there's something to feed uncle, whenever he's awake enough for such. And bread."

"Thank you, that would be wonderful," Teagan accepted for the three of them.

Zevran, meanwhile, was giving the woman a puzzled look. "I could swear I've seen you somewhere before," he said, earning an amused look from Teagan. Fenris frowned slightly. They had spoken of having a more open relationship, but was this really the time for flirtation... but then Zevran suddenly grinned widely. "_Aha!_ I have it – you said your brother is Bevin, did you not? Then that would make you Kaitlyn, if I remember correctly?"

Teagan looked startled, and then gave the woman a closer look. She grinned, straightening up slightly. "I wondered if either of you would remember. Yes, I'm Kaitlyn."

"Maker," Teagan said, sounding surprised. "So it is. I would never have recognized you."

Kaitlyn smiled. "I've done a lot of growing up, since Redcliffe," she said, then turned away to begin ladling soup into bowls. They were soon all seated around the table, with bowls of a hearty soup – almost a stew, except everything in it was chopped small, and it was rather on the liquid side – and chunks of a coarse but pleasantly nutty-tasting bread.

"It is a pleasure to see you again, Kaitlyn; I never heard what became of you and young Bevin after the events at Redcliffe," Teagan said, looking curiously at her before turning his attention to his meal.

Kaitlyn looked up from her own bowl with a smile. "Quite a few things. Soria had bought an old sword from my brother; she paid far more than it was worth, I think, but as desperate as we were I couldn't afford to turn good money down. Neither of us wanted to stay in Redcliffe, after everything that had happened there, and mother dying... and especially after the darkspawn attacked. We were both so scared! So after the Blight War ended, I sold mother's house, and we went to Denerim to seek our fortune."

"And didn't find it?" Zevran asked.

Kaitlyn grinned. "Actually we did. I met a man who owned a foundry in Denerim, it had been badly damaged during the invasion. He'd spent most of what money he still had on food, medicine and shelter for his workers, those who were still alive, but he didn't have enough money to repair the foundry; and yet, with all the rebuilding work going on, if only he could repair it he could make a fortune, forging all the things that would be needed in the reconstruction. Nails, hinges, door handles, all that sort of thing. Hammers, too, and saws, and other tools."

"Ahhh, so you became partners with him," Zevran exclaimed, smiling broadly.

"Yes. With my money we were able to buy what was required to fix the foundry, and because he'd looked after his workers when they desperately needed his help, they were willing to work extra-hard to get the place going again. Many workers from places that were utterly destroyed or whose owners had refused to help their workers came to us as well. We bought or bought into and repaired other shops too, as we earned enough money to, so now we own two foundries, a sawmill, interest in a whitesmith's shop, and most of a joinery workshop."

"And yet you became a blacksmith, yourself?" Teagan asked, sounding fascinated by her tale.

"I already knew a little smithing; we used to come here to visit uncle once or twice every year, and I liked to help out in his forge. I couldn't do much of the heavy work back then, I was too small, but I'd help with what I could – feeding coal to the forge, working the bellows, sorting scrap, fetching tools – and watch and listen while he made things and told me what he was doing and why. The last few times we came to stay, he had let me work on small things – nails and so on, that didn't require a great amount of strength to make. So even though there was a lot of forge work I'd never done myself, I knew _how_ it was done, when done properly. And we were desperately short of capable hands at first, so many were dead, or missing, or leaving Denerim entirely in the aftermath of what had happened."

Teagan smiled. "So you started helping out by making what you could."

Kaitlyn nodded, looking very serious. "Yes, since even things as simple as nails were needed in fantastic quantities. I spent what felt like ages doing nothing but making nails all day long, and then started working on other things as needed, learning from the other workers. I was good at it, and with all the steady work, I gained the strength I'd previously lacked. I'm as good a smith as anyone in either of our foundries, and I was learning how to make moulds and do castings and other similar tasks before I came up here."

"You're not worried about being away from your business for so long?" Fenris asked, curious.

"No. I have a good business partner; we've both come out very well from our deal, and we're friends; I trust him to look out for my interests as well as his own. Uncle needed me here; though since he looks unlikely to recover, I suppose come the spring I'll be looking for a new smith to sell the house and forge on to, unless Bevin decides he'd like to live here; he doesn't much care for Denerim. Too tame for him, he says, and nothing there he really wants to do, though he isn't sure what he does want to be. He dreamed of being an adventurer when he was younger. I thought he might go for a mercenary or a soldier, but he doesn't much care for taking orders," she said, sounding amused. "He's learned a little sword-work, and a little archery, a little smithing, a little wood-working... a little of everything and not enough of any one thing. At least we're well enough off that he can afford to dabble."

"And yet you think he might want to live here? I would think Denerim far more exciting than here," Zevran observed.

She shrugged. "He likes it here; likes the wildness, the beauty of the mountains. Even things like this weather. Most sensible people stay indoors in weather like this. _He_ is out somewhere with a friend of his, learning how to trap and hunt."

Teagan smiled warmly. "I can understand such a feeling. I do enjoy visiting places like Denerim, but I love returning to Rainesfere. Around my keep is a fairly well-settled and tamed area, but beyond that... beyond that is the mountains, and the wilderness, and so much that is unspoiled and beautiful," he said, then his expression altered, saddened. "I shall miss it."

She gave him a curious look, and then frowned. "Ah. Arl Eamon is unwell?"

He nodded. "Yes. And like your uncle, unlikely to live until spring."

"I am sorry for you coming loss, then," she said quietly, and with evident sincerity.

Teagan smiled slightly, and nodded his head to her. "Thank you. As am I, for yours."

After the meal she showed them where they could sleep, an attic storage room that was mostly empty save for a small pile of dusty broken furniture at one end and a stack of boxes and barrels at the other. Several of the boxes yielded up bedding – a little musty from long storage, but smelling of nothing worse than elder herbs or cedar wood – with which she helped them make up pallets on the floor.

"I'm sorry we don't have anywhere better to put you," she said. "But between my uncle and my brother and myself, all the bedrooms are in use."

"This is fine," Zevran assured her. "I am sure all three of us have slept in far worse conditions; and would have again this night, if we'd ended up camping out in the snow."

She smiled. "Well, I'll wish all three a good-night then; I'd best go check on uncle and let him know we have guests, before I seek out my own bed."

Teagan gave her a shallow bow. "Good-night, and our thanks."

Zevran and Fenris also said good-night to her, and then the three men retired for the night, all three of them being tired out from the long walk in the snow.


	37. Waiting Out The Storm

Zevran woke up, hearing someone moving around, then identified the sounds as Teagan rising and dressing. He stayed as he was, eyes politely closed, until the man had left the room, and only then opened his eyes and looked around.

Fenris was still soundly asleep, all rolled up in his bedding like a caterpillar in a cocoon, just his hair visible at one end of the roll from where Zevran was lying. The sight made him smile, then edge closer to nuzzle into the soft white hair and kiss the back of Fenris' neck. Fenris made a sleepy sound as the touch woke him, then chuckled softly. He stretched his head out of his bedding, turning enough to look over his shoulder at Zevran. "Now?"

Zevran considered, then sighed and shook his head. "No," he said regretfully, but kissed Fenris again, grinning at the face the other elf made afterwards. "You taste no better," he reminded him.

Fenris snorted, then looked around. "It's cold," he observed, which considering there was frost visible on the inside of the steeply pitched roof was rather stating the obvious, in Zevran's opinion.

"Warmer than if we'd had to camp out," Zevran said. "Lie in a little while longer if you wish; by the sound of it we won't be leaving today."

"The sound?" Fenris said, and then fell silent, listening, his face smoothing out as he heard what Zevran had already noticed; the sound of wind rushing over the snow-covered roof, and the faint hiss of blowing snow, with occasional soft thumps as windblown clots of it hit the building. "I'm not looking forward to going out in that to check on the horses," he said, and withdrew into his bedding like a turtle into its shell, as Zevran laughed and rolled out of his own.

The air was, as Fenris had pointed out, cold. Zevran hissed through his teeth, then dug quickly through his packs, drawing out an extra layer of clothing to pull on. Once he was changed – and, if anything, feeling even colder, the unworn cloth being just as cold as the air – he took out clothing for Fenris as well, setting it down near his bedroll before hurrying off downstairs in search of a fire to warm up by.

He heard voices while descending the stairs, and was unsurprised to find Teagan and Kaitlyn talking together in the kitchen. What did surprise him was to find Teagan with his sleeves rolled up and his forearms dusty with flour as he kneaded dough, a sight that made Zevran raise his eyebrows.

Teagan glanced up at his entrance, and broke off what he was saying to Kaitlyn and looked amused as he caught sight of Zevran's expression. "Not a skill you imagined me having?" he asked, smiling.

"Never," Zevran said very solemnly. "I of course learned how to cook because for many years it was either cook it for myself, or pay to have someone cook for me, and I couldn't always afford to eat out. I cannot imagine why you would need to learn so lowly a skill as kneading bread," he said, and took a seat across the table from where Teagan stood, watching with interest as the man stretched out part of the dough into a thin rectangle.

Teagan snorted softly. "It's a useful skill. Besides, I've always liked kitchens."

"So have I," Zevran said. "They tend to be filled with good food, sometimes generous cooks, and often a pretty maid or two as well," he said, and winked at Kaitlyn, who was standing near the fire cooking sausages in a long-handled spider pan.

She laughed and gave him a tolerant look. "If you know something about cooking, then why don't you peel and chop some onions and potatoes for me," she told him. "Instead of leaving all the work to Teagan and I."

"Of course," he said, and got back to his feet. The onions he spotted right away, hanging in a net bag in a corner. "Potatoes?" he asked after getting out several.

"There's a root cellar under that trapdoor," she said, nodded toward the other end of the room. "They're down there."

The trapdoor, when lifted, revealed wooden steps leading down into a dugout cellar beneath the house, low-ceilinged enough that even he had to duck. Two sides were filled with shelves, with all sorts of wax-sealed crocks and bottles of things, while the fourth had a number of barrels and crates. He quickly found the potatoes, and brought up a double handful of them up, dumping them on the table beside the onions, then seeking out a knife to use on them.

It only took a little of his attention to scrape and chop the potatoes; he found himself mostly watching Teagan's hands as the man shaped pieces of dough into loaves, setting them aside on a board sprinkled with coarse-ground meal to rise. Strong and capable hands, one of the kinds he liked best. He glanced up to find Teagan giving him an amused look, and smiled, and shrugged. They'd danced around each other enough over the years at Fereldan social events for Teagan to know that Zevran found him attractive, for Zevran to know that he wasn't Teagan's type, and for them both to enjoy a certain level of mild flirting on Zevran's part and occasional teasing on Teagan's in their friendship anyway. A friendship that went further than just the overlap of their political leanings, and their shared loyalty to King Alistair; Teagan was one of a handful of nobles that Zevran could use the term _friend_ of and know it was not just meant, but reciprocated.

He wasn't terribly surprised to look up again a potato or two later and find Teagan's head turned to look at Kaitlyn, a soft smile curling the man's lips. Zevran looked that way as well, and mentally agreed that the view was quite fine. She was wearing what must be some of her work clothes; safely inflammable and close-fitting leggings of well-worn brown leather and a thigh-length sleeveless vest of the same, over a short-sleeved shirt of undyed cloth, her ash blond hair caught back in a short braid. Her shoulders were deliciously broad, her arms impressively muscled, and all that leather clinging to womanly curves was certainly nothing Zevran objected to. Nor, judging by the appreciative look on Teagan's face, did the nobleman. Teagan turned his attention back to the last loaf of bread he was shaping. When he glanced Zevran's way again a moment later, Zevran grinned at him, eyebrows raising slightly, and was delighted when Teagan actually blushed.

The last loaf shaped, Teagan carried the board over and placed it on a stool near the fire, close enough to get the benefit of the warmer air in its rising, but not so close as to start it baking. That done, he cleaned up from shaping the loaves while Zevran peeled and diced onions. By the time he had that done, Kaitlyn was transferring the sausages to a platter near the fire to keep them warm. The chopped potatoes and onions went into the pan next, to fry in the grease from the sausages, after which Kaitlyn filled a kettle with water, and hung it on a hook over the fire.

"Will Fenris be joining us for breakfast?" she asked as she began to take down mugs to measure tea leaves into.

"He should be," Zevran said. "I'll go see if he's made it out of his bedroll yet. Even having lived in Kirkwall for much of the last decade hasn't prepared him for the sort of cold we get here; he was reluctant to leave its warmth."

He caught an amused glance from Teagan as he left, and didn't need any words to decipher the reasons behind it. First, that he was now Fereldan enough after his years here to include himself in that 'we' even after having spent most of his life in much warmer Antiva. And second, that it gave him at least a brief period of privacy with the other elf.

Fenris was up, and shivering as he tried to sort out the piled clothing into the right order of layers to change into. Zevran tsk'ed, and walked over to help him. "The fine knit underwear and stockings first," he said, quickly sorting things out. "Then the cloth shirt, the leather leggings, and a heavy sweater. That should be enough, unless we go outside."

Fenris glanced up from pulling off what clothing he'd slept in. "We should check on the horses," he pointed out.

"Breakfast first. Then horses." Fenris nodded agreement, and began dressing, Zevran helping by handing him things in order. "Come, there is a nice warm fire downstairs, Kaitlyn is making hot tea, and breakfast will be ready soon," he said once Fenris was done.

Fenris scowled. "You speak to me like a parent promising a child a treat."

Zevran shook his head. "No, I speak like one who also had to become used to Fereldan winters not all that many years ago. The cold will be very hard on you at first; it will wear you down and tire you out more than it does myself or Teagan. You will sicken more easily from the cold than we will, too. Which I do not want."

Fenris' scowl eased somewhat. "Now you sound like a parent worried over a delicate child."

Zevran laughed, then reached up to touch his hand lightly to the side of the taller elf's face. "No, I speak as one who cares about you very much," he said softly.

Fenris' expression melted to something softer, more open, and then he leaned down, the pair exchanging a kiss. Their arms moved to wrap around each other, hands beginning to roam. Until Fenris slid his hands up under Zevran's own layers of clothing, and the assassin jumped, letting out a thoroughly undignified yelp. "Your hands are like ice!"

"Your skin is so warm," Fenris said approvingly, nuzzling against Zevran's neck.

"Yes, well, so will yours be if we go downstairs. Breakfast should be ready by now."

Fenris sighed, but straightened, and the two headed downstairs together where, indeed, breakfast was just being served, a helping of sausages, potatoes and onions on each plate, with steaming mugs of strong hot tea. There was a crock on crystallized honey on the table; Fenris, who normally took his tea black, added a large dollop of it to his mug, stirring it in well before sipping. Zevran silently approved; he'd found during his first winter here that the cold made him hungry, and that he'd needed to eat extra.

"Fenris would like to go check on the horses once we've finished eating; so would I," Zevran remarked as they began digging into their food.

Kaitlyn nodded. "Of course. I'm sure they'll need feeding, watering..."

"Mucking out," Teagan supplied, grinning.

"That too," Kaitlyn agreed, then frowned slightly. "I don't mind putting all of you and your horses up until the storm blows over and you can continue your journey, but you'll have to look after your horses yourselves. Unless one of them needs shoeing; that I can do. But I'm not a groom or stable-hand."

Fenris nodded, his expression serious. "You are our host, not our servant," he said. "I do not wish to be an inconvenience to you."

"Nor I," Bann Teagan said, and Zevran, his mouth full of potatoes at the moment, nodded agreement as well.

"Good," she said, and then laughed. "This seems so strange, me telling a pair of nobles to muck out their own damn horses."

Zevran swallowed and then smiled. "A trio of nobles. Fenris is a lord where he comes from."

That just made her laugh again, before rising to carry her empty plate and mug over to set on the counter near the wash basin. By the time she'd shaved some soap into the basin and added water – hot from the kettle first, and then just enough cold to make its temperature tolerable – the rest of them had finished eating as well.

"Allow me, please, since you three cooked," Fenris said, gesturing to the basin. Kaitlyn nodded and happily left the washing up to him. Zevran found a cloth, and dried the dishes, while Teagan and Kaitlyn checked on the rising bread, and the temperature of the bread oven set in the side of the fireplace, before placing the one in the other. That taken care of, they all trooped off upstairs, Kaitlyn to check on her uncle and bring him his breakfast, the three men in search of their coats.

* * *

The horses were fine, all of them standing quietly, though they looked around with interest to see who had entered. The packed earth floor showed evidence already of their stay, which the three men spent some time in cleaning up, after which they fed and watered them. Thankfully Kaitlyn had been able to come up with enough varied containers of large enough size for the horses to all have a bucket, trough, or other receptacle of water nearby. Filling them emptied out the water barrel, which they then had to laboriously refill with bucket after bucket of water hauled from a well outside. Hard work, and cold, with the blowing snow.

"I'll go care for the mules," Zevran volunteered, seeing that Fenris was busy grooming his stallion, while Teagan and Kaitlyn were checking the horses' feet to make sure that none of them was losing a shoe, or in need of any other care.

The mules needed to be shovelled out as well, of course, and watered, and fed. He had finished, and was leaning against one wall of the shed, scratching the jaw of one while thinking about the weather and worrying over how much worse it would be once they got higher into the mountains, when the door opened and Fenris stepped inside. Zevran smiled warmly at him. "How is Ari?" he asked.

"Enjoying the break from travel," Fenris said, and slipped around the walls to where Zevran was.

Zevran grinned, and allowed Fenris to pull him into an embrace, the two kissing. Fenris' hands immediately set to work unfastening Zevran's coat, then slipped up under his clothing, caressing against his skin. "Mmm, your hands are nicely warmed now," he observed, then gasped as one of Fenris' hands slid higher yet, pinching a nipple, the other sliding around to the small of his back and pressing him closer.

"Breakfast and all that hard work warmed me up," Fenris said, and lower his head further to mouth along Zevran's jawline, and down his neck, one hand slipped back out from under Zevran's clothing to rise up and caress the side of his face, the edge of his ear.

Zevran sighed in pleasure, lifting his own hands to comb through Fenris' hair. He paused after a moment, tightening his grip enough to draw Fenris' head back. "Your hair is growing out."

Fenris shrugged. "I thought I might try it longer. Or at least get it properly cut, instead of hacking it off with a knife."

Zevran hmmm'd thoughtfully, and toyed with Fenris' hair briefly, drawing it back or down in different ways, imagining how it would look, longer. "I like the idea of you with longer hair," he said decisively, then looked curiously at Fenris. "Why the change?"

Fenris shrugged, then coloured slightly. "In Denerim, for Satinalia, you kept doing different things with your own hair; braids and things. I liked how it looked, and I..." His flush darkened. "I thought about how nice it might be, having you do things like that with my hair for me."

"Ahhh," Zevran said softly, and drew Fenris into another lengthy kiss, taking his time with it before finally speaking again. "I would enjoy that very much too, I think."

Fenris smiled, then leaned down for another kiss, a lengthy one, his hands finding their way under Zevran's clothing again, one returning to playing with Zevran's nipples while the other, after only a brief hesitation, slipped lower. Zevran, gasped after a moment. "Here?" he said, amused.

"Why not? One of our first times..." Fenris reminded him softly, then pushed gently on him, moving him further away from the mules, backed into a corner, before going down on one knee before him, lifting up his sweater and shirt enough to tug at his laces.

"Since you insist," Zevran said, and threaded his fingers back into Fenris' hair, gasping as Fenris, having shifted Zevran's clothing out of the way enough to free Zevran's length, closed his mouth around the tip of Zevran's erection. Zevran closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the wall as he focused on the exquisite feeling of Fenris' mouth on him, hot and wet and moving just so as the other elf licked and sucked and mouthed at him. He found himself smiling, remembering that time in the stable and how surprised – and delighted – he'd been when Fenris had spontaneously done the same thing he was doing now. It wasn't long until he had to bite back a cry as he came, Fenris sucking hard to urge the release of every last drop.

Fenris had a smile that could only be described as _smug_ on his face when he rose again, fingers busy tucking Zevran back away. Zevran grinned, and craned upwards a little to nuzzle at Fenris' neck, pushing his hands away so he could do up his own laces. "Let me return the favour," he said, voice husky as he purposefully nudged at Fenris' groin while doing so. The warrior barely hesitated before switching places with him.

They were both in considerably better mood when they returned to the house together afterwards. The kitchen smelled deliciously of baking bread. Teagan and Kaitlyn were seated on opposite sides of the table, talking while they peeled and chopped vegetables, presumably to add to the pot of soup, whose level was considerably lowered by their dinner the night before.

"Anything we can help with?" Zevran asked helpfully.

Kaitlyn looked up and smiled. "Thanks, but I think the two of us have it," she said, Teagan nodding agreement.

"Then I suppose Fenris and I will go sort through our things and see if anything needs repair. Or sharpening. Or polish."

Teagan laughed softly. Kaitlyn smiled. "There's a brazier somewhere in the junk at the end of the room; if you can find it you're welcome to use it, just be careful not to set the place on fire. There's a vent to let the smoke out, too. Take some wood up with you."

Zevran nodded, and he and Fenris gathered up some kindling and a few of the smaller pieces of wood to carry upstairs with them. They kept their coats on while they searched for the brazier, eventually finding it in a corner, hidden behind a stack of musty old coats. It was an oval basin made of iron, with stubby legs slanting outwards, and a handle at each end.

The vent was in one of the gable ends of the roof, and Fenris had to boost Zevran up so he could pry it open and then poke between the slats of it with a stick to make sure that it was open to the outside, no ice or snow blocking it. He could feel only a slight draft of cold air coming in the vent when he was done; he guessed it had been put in the gable on the leeward side of the house, where winds were less likely to blow in through it.

"Where should we put the brazier? Under the vent?" Fenris asked.

"No, if we do that, most of the heat will go right out of it without warming the room first. Over toward the middle would be better."

Fenris nodded, and positioned the brazier. Zevran crouched down, building a careful pile of tinder, with the finest, most flammable stuff at the bottom. He took out a tinderbox and soon had a spark struck and the tinder lit, and carefully added bits and pieces of kindling to the brazier until there was a small fire burning in it. A single log of wood pretty much filled the brazier.

"We'll have to keep a close eye on that," Zevran said. He looked up to find that Fenris was busy re-arranging their pallets of bedding, placing them side-by side at one end of the room. His eyebrows rose. "Planning on further activity already?"

Fenris looked up, giving him a faintly amused look. "No. Not right now, anyway. I just thought it would be nice to sit together and talk."

"Ah. Like that talk we mostly skirted around the edges of back in Denerim?" Zevran asked quietly, rising to his feet.

"Yes," Fenris said, and sat down on the floor, his back against the wall, and patted the bedroll beside him.

Zevran smiled, feeling just a little uncertain, and walked over to sit down shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Fenris immediately took his hand in his, lacing their fingers together. And then just sat silently, looking at their clasped hands, his thumb rubbing lightly against the back of Zevran's.

Finally Fenris sighed softly, and relaxed, leaning a little more heavily against Zevran. "I want to talk, but I'm not entirely sure about what, or where to begin."

"About us, I am assuming."

"Yes. About us, and our relationship. Zevran... what are we going to do, come spring? I'll have to head back north to Starkhaven. I assume you have things you should be remaining here in Ferelden to do. I do not wish to be parted from you," he finished, his grip tightening on Zevran's hand, as he turned and gave the assassin an intense look.

"Nor I from you. And yet, as you point out, we will have to part, at least for a while. And not just once, but many times, over the years."

Fenris smiled slightly, and leaned closer. "Years?"

Zevran smiled warmly back. "Yes, _years_, unless I manage to do something so foolish as to drive you away. Or you die. Or I die. All of which I hope we will both endeavour not to do, especially the last two, at least not for many, many years yet."

Fenris laughed softly, and leaned over just enough further to brush a soft kiss across the spot where Zevran's tattoos curled over his cheekbone. "I will try," he promised.

"Good," said Zevran, and turned his head to brush a kiss against Fenris' lips. "I, too, will try."

They distracted themselves for a few minutes with exchanging kisses. Just gentle ones, without any real heat, just seeking and giving comfort. Finally Fenris straightened up again. "What will we do?"

"Truthfully, I suppose we will both take care of what things we must, and then whichever one of us is free to do so will visit the other, for as long as possible. That we will part many times, and write many letters, and reunite whenever we can do so. That we will arrange our lives, as much as we can, to make room for each other, so that we may spend as much time together as we may, whenever and wherever we can. It will not be easy."

"No, I suppose not," Fenris said, and then smiled again, a look of such warmth and affection it took Zevran's breath away for a moment. "You are worth it, to me."

Zevran squeezed his hand. "And you, to me," he agreed, then smiled. "I will have a room set aside for you at Blackmarsh. You may keep whatever you wish there, and decorate it however you like, so you will always have a place in Blackmarsh that is yours. Though I would hope that when you visit you will be spending most of your time in _my_ room."

Fenris laughed. "I will do the same, at Brynhir," he said, and then fell silent for a little while, before darting a glance at Zevran. "I meant what I said before, back in Denerim. I do not mind if you sleep with others."

Zevran studied Fenris' face, then slowly nodded. "Nor do I mind if you do the same," he said, and grinned when Fenris frowned and started to protest. "Do _not_ tell me you will never do any such thing. There are many reasons to sleep with someone, and love is just one of them. Though I think by far the best one. Anyway, if you find yourself wishing to do so, I do not want you to feel constrained. I want you to be happy, even when I am unable to be with you; I want you to feel free to find comfort with someone else, when I am not there to comfort you myself."

Fenris chewed on his bottom lip, looking thoughtful, then slowly nodded. "All right," he agreed. "Fair enough."

"Good," Zevran said. They fell silent again, content to just sit there together.

"I like your Bann Teagan," Fenris said after a while. "He's pleasant to travel with."

"He is a good man," Zevran agreed, then grinned and looked sideways at Fenris. "I can only wish he was mine. Sadly I am not his type, and can only yearn for his touch."

Fenris snorted, and gave Zevran a sideways look. "I got the impression he was rather taken with our hostess, actually."

Zevran nodded. "I do believe he is. She is a fine-figured woman, if you like them strong, and she seems quite capable. Both things that I know he finds attractive."

"And yet you are not his type?" Fenris asked, eyebrows raising.

"Oh, ho! Are you flattering me? You _are_ flattering me," Zevran exclaimed, delighted, drawing a small grin from the other elf, then sighed. "Sadly it is strong and capable _women_ he finds attractive. A result of early influences, I believe; among them his sister Rowan, who was the wife of Alistair's father. She was quite the warrior during the rebellion. And then the Couslands were much at court as well, and Eleanor Cousland was in those years a renowned beauty, and famous for her wit and political acumen. I am sure she too made a considerable impression on him. Hmmm... in fact, I wonder if perhaps he may have had a childhood crush on her, which would explain much... she was an archer during the rebellion, you see; she likely had good strong arms from that. And possibly even broad shoulders, though perhaps not as broad as our lovely blacksmith's."

Fenris frowned slightly. "How do you know all this?"

Zevran grinned. "I told you before that I like to know things. It is not just in places like Redcliffe where I have bought drinks and listened to the old people talk. Denerim, Highever, Amaranthine... anywhere I visit for long enough, I try to learn the old stories."

"The old gossip, you mean."

"Stories, gossip, history... it is all the same thing. Sometimes with more or less truth, depending on who is doing the telling, and why, and to whom. Yesterday's gossip is tomorrow's history and next week's fantastical story."

Fenris frowned slightly. "That sounds like something Varric would say, actually. Except he doesn't wait until next week to turn a good bit of gossip into a story."

Zevran grinned. "I must find the time to read some of his books. Isabela tells me they are quite good, of their sort, and that their sort is one I will like."

Fenris nodded thoughtfully. "She's probably right."

"Oh? You've read some of them then?"

Fenris blushed, even his ears reddening; an interesting and telling reaction. "One or two."

"Hah! Judging by that blush, I think I shall have to make a point of searching some out," Zevran said, and grinned.

Fenris snorted, then smiled. "Just don't expect me to read them."

"Not the sort of thing you like reading?"

"No, it's not that... it's just that so many of the character are based on people I actually knew, sometimes even events I'd been part of."

Zevran's eyebrows rose. "Does that mean you're actually _in_ some of them?"

Fenris blushed again. "Yes. Though not in a, err... main role."

Zevran grinned. "Then I will most definitely need to find copies to read."


End file.
